Anything for You
by Anonymity Is Key
Summary: When a case goes from bad to worse, and the stakes just keep rising, the team's bonds are tested in ways they never anticipated. Contains psychological and physical torture, a very interesting un-sub, and NO Morgan/Reid.
1. Chapter 1

**He-ey! This is my first fanfiction, so I really hope everyone likes it. PLEASE REVIEW! It's set around the start of the sixth season, just before JJ leaves (grrr... not happy about that one...) and defiantly before Prentiss does (GRRR... even less happy about that one...) **

**WARNINGS: Will probably include some pretty twisted stuff as the story progresses, psychological and physical torture, and I'm not planning on going easy on the descriptive language. Maybe some slight MorganXReid, but nothing graphic, mostly friendship. Oh, yeah, and of course there will be the odd spot of profanity. **

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Believe me, I would not say no to Reid if given the chance, but sadly, he is not for sale. Yet. **

* * *

Words, facts, numbers tumbled around the shadowy cavern of his brain as he tried to sleep. Tossing, turning, _did you know that the average- _No. This was getting ridiculous. He groaned, rolled over, picked up a book, put down a book, shifted positions- _a 2006 study showed that-. _

He crunched down on his unruly thoughts, wish that he could shut them up, distract himself.

Distract himself from what? He turned again, this time onto his stomach. He covered his head, his ears, with his hands but it didn't stop.

He knew exactly what he needed a distraction from. His brain, his thoughts. His sanity. That which he these days regarded as a tangible thing, something that could be stolen, taken without a sound in the night. Something he could place on a table by accident and loose. Something he needed to keep watch on day and night.

_Schizophrenia has many similarities to- _no.

_Schizophrenia is more apparent in- _No.

_Schizophrenia is often difficult to diagnose early, as- _**No. **

_Schizophrenia can be linked to- _**NO! **

**NONONONONONO! **He was smarter than this, to go down this road again, to do this. He would not let this control his life, he could not, would not, couldn't... couldn't...

He launched himself off his couch and went to the kitchen to clear his thoughts, to calm down. He knew that not sleeping was not going to help, that his reason couldn't be robbed like some precious gem as he slept, that his brain WAS capable of slowing down and letting him rest, letting him find solace. He looked at the kitchen clock. 1:47 am. _Damn it. _He had work the next day, and it wouldn't do him any good to endure the worried glances and whispers. If only he could just shut it all out... He glanced at the bathroom door on reflex. _No, not that_, he told himself, feeling guilty. The last thing he needed in his life right now was drugs. Still, it was a temptation he could feel under his skin, in his bones.

_No. _Spencer Reid told himself it one more time, before looking at his reflection in the misty glass of the window and sighing with dissatisfaction. It was going to be a long, hard night. Again.

* * *

Derek Morgan sauntered into the office as casually as possible, hoping for an easy slide into his desk at the bustling BAU without any notice. Surreptitiously, he eased himself closer. '_Only a few steps now...'_ he thought as he smiled at a pretty young police officer hurrying past. _Closer, closer, annnd safe!_ He slid into his chair with satisfaction at his smooth late entrance, opening a file- only to see an ominous shadow on it. _Shit. Busted. _

"It's almost an hour after you're supposed to be here." said the stern voice with doom written all over it.

"Umm, yeah, I'm really sorry." Morgan winced slightly as he swiveled his chair around to look up at Hotch, trying to gauge the reaction in his stone-faced boss. "There was a lot of traffic, and my alarm didn't go off, and it, uh, won't happen again." Hotch's eyes drilled into him as he tried to keep his composure.

"I'm counting on that." He finally replied before sweeping off on black wings of efficiency.

Moran released the breath he hadn't noticed he was holding and turned back to his desk, only to realize he had an audience. Prentiss and J.J. were giggling at him.

"Nice one, Slick" Prentiss laughed. Morgan sighed. _Okay, I kinda deserved that._

"Is it just me, or is Hotch on Monday mornings scarier than most of the sickos we hunt?" He asked.

"True, but you were late three days last week."J.J. said, walking off.

"Actually, he was one and a half minutes late one of the other days, so make that four days." Reid's voice floated up from behind him, and he turned to see the young genius reading though a file at what appeared to be the speed of light.

"And I suppose you haven't been late? Even once?"

Reid didn't even look up as he replied "Of course I have been. Just not in over a month, and that doesn't change the fact that you're late over 1847% more than me. About."

The older profiler sighed before looking with concern at his colleague and friend. He had bags under his eyes that would make a zombie jealous, and may have even lost some weight-if that was possible. He was about to say something when Rossi came out and called the conference room in five.

Derek Morgan had no idea this was going to be anything but an average day.

* * *

The man in the shadows pulled his muscles taunt, taking a deep, perfect breath. _In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth. _He pulled his body to the next pose, feeling the muscles in his thighs tighten, and the release of his shoulder muscles. _In through the nose, out through the mouth. _He grounded himself, pulled himself totally into the moment and the routine. He abandoned himself to the workout, the one place he felt at peace; the one place the rest of the world never bothered him. _In through the nose, out through the mouth._ The people at the... the hospital, for want of a better word, had said the yoga would be good for him. For once they could agree. It sharpened his body, his mind, his _focus_ in ways nothing else could._ In through the nose, out through the mouth._

It was the best, no, the **only** way to prepare for what had to be done. That's right, what HAD to be done. Whether he liked it or not. It was his job, and justice needed to be served. And he was the only one who could do it- more than that even, the only one **she **had chosen to do it. Because that was all that mattered. **Because SHE was all that mattered. **

Happy with the resolution of his thoughts, he returned to the routine.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth... _

* * *

As the BAU filed into the conference room, they could automatically see something was wrong. This was not going to be just one of the usual horrors they were introduced to around the round table. As Reid scanned Rossi's face, he bet that this was going to be a difficult case. JJ and Hotch were the last ones to enter, looking at each other in a conspiratorial fashion before Hotch sighed and JJ began the briefing.

"Okay, I want to make sure everybody's clear on this: we are not sure if we even have a case here. We don't know if any of these killings are connected, but the coincidences seemed too much to ignore, and a local sheriff has called us in. So we all need to keep an open, objective mind. If this is a serial killer, they have been responsible for the deaths of at least 26 men and women, and aren't going to stop."

'Why aren't we sure it's a serial killer?" Reid asked. It seemed like it was likely, given the amount of cases they believed to be connected- such an exact number did not seem the product guesswork and suspicion. His mind had already whirred into action, flicking through and comparing all the cases he had seen where they weren't sure of a serial killer being responsible.

"Victimology and method of choice- or lack thereof." Hotch replied. When he was met with confused eyes, he nodded to the images that appeared on the screen mounted on the wall. There were all twenty six promised victims, but none of the dump sites, injuries or, well, any of it looked similar.

"One of the bodies (Jennifer Shirley) was so torn apart that it took weeks to identify her. She was tortured extensively, for weeks maybe, and sexually assaulted. Her body was found in an alley in a pentagram drawn in her own blood. By contrast, one of the most recent victims was shot, cleanly, execution style. They are of all demographics, all ages, and all different socio-economic statuses. The c.o.d.'s are from every end of the map, from asphyxiation, to blunt force trauma, to blood loss, to heart attack... and the list goes on."

Morgan's brow creased. "Wait, so why do we _think_ it's a serial killer then?"

"Firstly, the lack of evidence on all the scenes was remarkable. Not only was there no evidence of the DNA of the un-sub, there wasn't any evidence of any cleaning agent used to ensure this. Absolutely nothing of the attacker, the location they were taken form, the place that they were held- nothing. It's quite rare to see this." Here Reid nodded vigorously in agreement, and opened his mouth to talk, but Hotch continued before he had the chance to lecture them all on the statistics behind this claim. "On top of that, all the victims were held hostage. The time they were held varied as well, but this is still notable. And lastly, two people were always taken together. These victims always knew each other, but their relationship types varied- a lot. However, despite all this, most of the assigned task force didn't even consider that a serial killer was a possibility. Until a week ago."

"What changed?"Prentiss wasted no time in asking what was on all of their minds.

This time it was J.J. who answered, as two images appeared on the screen. It was a woman and a man, both obviously killed by shots to the stomach.

"These are, or were, officers Dan Parker and Michelle Rutherford. They were two of the policemen working Jennifer's case, and a couple of the only ones who believed this could be the work of a serial killer. They were reported missing from their homes, with no signs of struggle 72 hours before they were found." As the team looked closer, they noticed some minor bruises, as well as ligature marks, but no other serious injury apart from the gaping holes in their abdomens. It would have been a long, slow, painful death.

Reid, as usual, wasted no time before giving his opinion. "I'd say this _is _at least one un-sub, though this level of experimentation hasn't been seen before, it's not uncommon for serial killers to try many different techniques or methods, trying to find which they prefer. There are too many coincidences to consider these killings unrelated." His brow creased as he reviewed all the cases similar to this one he had seen, mentally flicking through files as the rest of the team nodded in agreement.

"So, we've been called in?" Prentiss demanded.

JJ pursed her lips. "Well, yes, but it wasn't exactly a unanimous decision. Much of the force still doubts this could all be the work of an un-sub, and many of the ones who do want us to come in are under the opinion that one of their colleagues is the perpetrator. Needless to say, this has not gone over well with the vast majority of the taskforce. This means that even if they do think this is a serial killer, they don't want us to come in because they feel that we would be inspecting them. On top of that, the chief of the department is retiring soon, and there are two hopefuls to fill his position. One is dead set against us, and the other is in support. Because the head has called us in, the deputy dead set against us feels that this means the other is the favorite for the position. He also feels that he is the superior choice, and that the only reason that the head, who is female, is choosing his competitor is because of a motherly bond- or maybe something a little more than motherly, if you catch my drift. All in all, it's quite possible that the police themselves are going to be our greatest challenge- and that's saying something, if you ask me."

Morgan sighed, for perhaps the fiftieth time that day, and rubbed his eyes, picturing in his head the scene in his head. After having worked as a police officer, he always found it hard not to sympathize with them. His insides boiled at the cruel fate of the hardworking partners coldly displayed on the screen. That being said, he had no doubts of the legitimacy of JJ's conclusion. Nothing caused division in a group quite like a leadership battle. Throw in a possible serial killer, and the death of two of their own and the mixture reached a boiling point- and he had no illusions about the obstacles that placed in front of him and his team.

Reid's brow creased as he added this new, and not totally unexpected information into his calculations. He mentally formulated the possible scenarios and endings to similar situations, historical and those he had seen in person. Their prospects did not seem bright if they did not gain the respect of the department quickly, convincing them they were not there to examine them; simply to catch the killer. They then had to catch the un-sub in a timely fashion, while not being remotely antagonistic to any of the various factions within the officers. He got that gut feeling in the back of his brain, telling him this was NOT going to go the way he wanted. Pushing it aside, he went back to the extensive files. This would be hard enough without expecting it to end badly from the start.

Prentiss had seen similar situations a few times, and it was never pretty. How this all ended would depend on their actions, but almost all of it had to do with how their actions were interpreted- something they had very little control over. She was more concerned with catching this un-sub. He- or she, or they she reminded herself- were not going to stop, and were defiantly getting bolder. If this continued, she would fear for her team. They were her family, and she would kill anyone who harmed them. Period. That being said, it was going to be hard to convince Morgan to view the policemen as suspects- something she felt had to be done. Who else would know that those were the only two officers who thought this was a serial killer? She was also worried about Reid. He didn't look so good and had being throwing himself into his work recently, like he wanted a distraction. Though she trusted him totally, he had trouble remembering that not everybody saw everything as objectively as he did- a habit that had landed them in hot water before. To be honest, she was a little worried about him. Shoving her misgivings to the back of her mind, she focused on catching the killer. After that was done, they could worry about other things. This required her immediate attention.

JJ thought of the media she and her team would have to face when they arrived. They had been provided with little information thus far, and had become akin to starving dogs- ready to rip anything apart. They had caught wind of not only her team's arrival, but the suspicions of a serial killer AND the untimely deaths of the two officers. The liaison had her work cut out for her. She only hoped that her expertise had not arrived on the scene too late. That aside, she would almost defiantly have to act as mediator within the investigation. She knew from experience that this could be even harder than catching the killer when the large amount of alpha-males that were involved were, well, involved.

Hotch looked over his team carefully. The past few months had been hard on them, and he had been hoping to squeeze through another week without a case. That being said, they were desperatly needed for this case. It was clearly something only his team could do. Despite this, he was reluctant to take the case, as his agents more than deserved a break. Prentiss was keeping her face blank expertly, but he could see the hints of misgivings floating behind her focused eyes. She knew what needed to be done, and he had no doubt that she would remain stoic and determined. No matter how bad the case, she always did her best to remain unfazed. Her poker face was almost as good as his own. It was one of the things which made him respect her so much. Morgan, by comparison, was equally capable, but everyone could see the cold anger radiating from him. Cases with policemen as victims tended to hit him hard, and this would make him utterly dedicated to catching the killer. This was good. He may not be the best shot when diplomacy was needed, but Hotch had no doubt that the officers would appreciate his outlook. It would defiantly help convince them that the team was there to help, not attack them. He could only hope that Morgan would be able not to let the case become too personal.

His eyes flicked over to JJ. She looked a bit haggard at the prospect of the difficult work they knew she would have to endure for this case. He felt a twinge of guilt as he remembered that she was, once again, leaving her young son. She was an essential part of their team; not only because of how well she performed, but that she was always there for them. If this case was going to be as bad as he suspected, they would need her more than ever. His eyebrows approached each other by millimeters on his stone cold face as he regarded the youngest member of his team. They would need Reid more than ever on this case, what with the lack of evidence and confusing tendencies. It was obvious something was bothering the doctor though- his hair was a mess, the shadows under his eyes were darker than normal and he seemed even skinnier than usual. He had been drinking a lot of coffee and eating less, which was never a good sign. Hotch didn't know what was wrong, but as long as it didn't effect his performance, it wasn't something he could really approach him about. It didn't seem to be so far (possibly even the opposite) but only time would tell there was a serious problem. His thoughts traveled to Garcia. These violent cases tended to worry her, and he didn't blame her. She had become increasingly protective of the team with every case that put them in danger, and he knew that this job hit her harder than any of the others. Lastly he looked at Rossi, who was deep in thought.

Rossi considered the case. He thought over all the angles, drawing on his considerable experience and knowledge. When he opened his mouth, everyone looked at him, hoping for some insight into his thoughts. He proceeded to then ask the one question they all should have thought of long ago.

"So, where is this case anyways?"

"Seattle. Wheels up in twenty." was the cool reply.

* * *

**PLEASE REVIEW! I really want to know what you guys think and will take all suggestions into careful consideration. As I mentioned, this is my first fan-fic, so please tell me anything you think, no matter how apparently obvious it is... I'm not very good at sticking to a schedule, so my chapters will come at kind of random times I'm afraid. I'll try my best though! The story will also speed up a lot as it progresses; I'm just trying to build up a bit of suspense... so, yeah. Tell me what you think.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! I really appreciate the honest feedback. I'm sorry for the really long paragraph when I first posted it- I separated it into two as soon as I noticed. And to clarify, I'm really not sure if there's going to be any slash or not. I originally was going to, but after doing some thinking, I'm really not sure if I'm going to or not. I want to focus a lot on Morgan and Reid's relationship, but I'm not sure how far I want it to progress if you catch my drift- ****tell me what you guys think!**** On the other hand, don't worry, this un-sub has been living in my head for a while, so even though they seem a little random right now, I DO HAVE A PLAN! Have no fear, all will come into light... **

**WARNING: ****psychological and physical torture; MAYBE slash; good old-fashioned swearing! **

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Criminal Minds or any of the characters on the show. Unfortunately. **

* * *

The first few minutes on the BAU's jet were tense, everyone 'reviewing' their case files, no one wanting to breach the topic of what they would have to face once they got to Seattle. Finally Rossi broke the silence, getting straight to the heart of the matter.

"We're going to have to regard the policemen as suspects. It looks unlikely that anyone outside of the department apart from the close friends and family of the victims could have known about their suspicions."

"Unless the media got wind of it." Morgan argued "It's quite possible. This is one hell of a big story, and there would be a lot of media attention. Something had to tip them off a week ago, when the papers first covered it. A journalist could have been researching it while they were still alive, and talked to them."

"That is possible…" Rossi admitted.

"Well, if it was picked up by the media, no one published anything about a possible serial killer before it all hit the fan. Sorry Sugarplum. I'll keep checking" Garcia interluded via the laptop in the middle of the small table.

"I'm more concerned about the actual murders of the officers." Reid looked pensively at the file as he continued. "At first glance, it would seem like the un-sub was trying to cover up all suspicions of a serial killer, but that's clearly not true. They are clearly an organized offender, the attention to detail in the killing and cleaning of the bodies makes that clear. They are almost certainly highly intelligent; enough so to know that wouldn't work. This looks more like the un-sub taunting them. But why do that after all the effort put into eradicating all traces of evidence of the victims?"

Prentiss nodded in agreement. "The bodies were compulsively clean, but the murders did not seem like compulsive kills. There are so many differences between crime scenes, and there was no evidence of anything… uncontrolled about the kills. But then we have the overkill exhibited on many of the victims, like Jennifer Shirley. The pentagram? That was screaming for attention, yet there was no attempt to contact the media or police when it was all but dismissed."

Something suddenly occurred her "It's like they're _trying _to confuse us."

Reid eagerly jumped in "That would mean an extremely organized killer, who knows how we operated, who was _enjoying _toying with the police. They would have gotten quite upset when the police didn't live up to their expectations –not being sure if it was a serial killer- and provoked them."

"Yeah, but weren't the bodies just too clean for a simple ruse, aimed at confusing?" Morgan countered "That level of cleaning doesn't come from anything but a compulsion. We can't just dismiss it."

"This is all very good" Hotch interrupted as both Prentiss and Reid opened their mouths to respond, "but we're getting ahead of ourselves. What do we always starts with?" he asked, as if he was talking to a group of children.

"Victimology" Reid sighed. "The victims are fairly random. I couldn't find any patterns in accordance with the level of torture. However, though the oldest victim was 80, the youngest was 18. There were no children killed, which is remarkable considering the range in every other aspect, and the lack of remorse in any of the kills."

"Great, so now we have a sicko with morals." Morgan grunted.

"That is unlikely, given the sadism. I can't explain that, but I can tell you that the victims seem purposefully random. No one is safe, apart from children. There were 12 women and 14 men. Robert Gray was paralyzed from the waist down, while Brittany Campbell was extremely fit, an athlete. George Singh was extremely wealthy and influential, while Sarah Tung was a prostitute and drug-addict. These victims are too ranged. It must be on purpose."

"That backs up our theory- this must be like a game to the un-sub." Prentiss' brow creased as she spoke.

"Wait, that's not the most remarkable part of the victims. They were all kidnapped in pairs (though they were found in different locations), as you know, with someone they knew. I think this shows us the most of the un-sub's pathology. They were probably kept together, and forced to watch as the people they knew, in some cases loved, were subject to- well who knows what. Even those with little physical damage were kept for at least a week. What is he doing with _them? _I would put my money on the un-sub getting off more on the mental torment than the physical. He's probably manipulating them, toying with them, for the entire time. This is most defiantly a game to him."

The team absorbed the information as the un-sub before them grew more complex, yet at the same time even more like a sick, demented, utterly distorted child.

* * *

Greg sighed as he looked once again over the files before him, pulling a hair off his pristine shirt. He frowned slightly before placing the offending strand safely in the garbage. He would be more upset if it was anyone else's but his dear one's. The touch that had transported it had lifted him into a state of elation. Any show of affection from **her** perfection did. He shook his head to keep it clear and returned to the task **she** had given him.

The hours passed, and he knew that tonight it would be time for the best game so far- he hoped. If these agents disappointed **her**, he didn't know what he'd do. The police had been so _boring_ it was simply shocking. **She** had grown so frustrated with him, it had torn his heart out. He stretched his lean, well muscled body and yawned. It would be action time soon enough, and then **she** would be so happy with him! He hoped…

He returned to the files, looking at all the pictures, memorizing the faces **she** had chosen. The ones who **she** had decided were worthy of entertaining **her**. Greg bit back a pang of jealousy. He knew that he was the only one **she** had deemed worthy of **her** attentions as a subordinate. No one else. **She** chose who **she** wanted, but **she** would tire of them soon. **She** would never abandon him. Unless he deserved it, he supposed. But still, **she** kept him with **her**! That had to count for something. He could never quite shake the pain of not having all **her** focus, despite the fact that he knew he didn't deserve it. No one did. No one was worthy.

Deciding this was a perfect resolution to his internal dilemma, he returned to attacking the pages before him with renewed urgency. Only a few more hours before show time, and he could not fail **her**. It was an unacceptable concept.

* * *

Reid tensed his stomach reflexively as they approached the 'command center', so to speak, of the investigation. The entire BAU was there, except for Garcia, of course, because they did not want to go ahead to the crime scene without consulting the head of the investigation. This was thanks to the tense state of things on the case. It had taken them until three o'clock in the afternoon to arrive, so they didn't have more than six hours with the department that day. _You'd think we were alien invaders from the way they're staring at us._ Every person they passed looked up and stopped what they were doing to inspect the agents. Some looked thankful, many radiated anger, and all were clearly judging them and their capabilities. The others had noticed it, and were stressing an official, yet not to cold appearance. Reid supposed that he should do the same, but didn't quite know how.

"You must be the FBI." Came a professional, but slightly haggard voice. A woman in around her fifties approached them. She had dark brown, almost black hair with the odd silver streak pulled back from her face in a modest clip. Everything about her, from her clean black suit (with fitted jacket and slim pants) and whit button up shirt, to her elegant black heels and dainty silver jewelry suggested smooth efficiency and style. This was clearly a capable woman, Reid thought, meeting her strong green eyes. He could NOT picture her in a relationship with one of her inferiors at work.

Reid tensed his stomach reflexively as they approached the 'command center', so to speak, of the investigation. The entire BAU was there, except for Garcia, of course, because they did not want to go ahead to the crime scene without consulting the head of the investigation. This was thanks to the tense state of things on the case. It had taken them until three o'clock in the afternoon to arrive, so they didn't have more than six hours with the department that day. _You'd think we were alien invaders from the way they're staring at us._ Every person they passed looked up and stopped what they were doing to inspect the agents. Some looked thankful, many radiated anger, and all were clearly judging them and their capabilities. The others had noticed it, and were stressing an official, yet not to cold appearance. Reid supposed that he should do the same, but didn't quite know how.

"You must be the FBI." Came a professional, but slightly haggard voice. A woman around her fifties approached them. She had dark brown, almost black hair with the odd silver streak pulled back from her face in a modest clip. Everything about her, from her clean black suit (with fitted jacket and slim pants) and white button up shirt, to her elegant black heels and dainty silver jewelry suggested smooth efficiency and style. This was clearly a capable woman, Reid thought, meeting her strong green eyes. He could NOT picture her in a relationship with one of her inferiors at work.

NOT picture her in a relationship with one of her inferiors at work.

JJ stepped forward with a helpful smile "Yes, I'm agent Jareau, we spoke on the phone. This is SSA Aaron Hotchner, Agents Prentiss, Morgan and Rossi, and Dr. Reid." She said, motioning to each of them in turn.

Hotch shook her hand as she replied "Yes, I am Sylvia Delaire. I am in charge of the investigation. I trust you have already been briefed?" She said while, not waiting for an answer, turning and walking off, clearly expecting them to follow- but not checking if they were.

_She is a definitely a formidable figure, extremely authoritative and used to getting-no, taking- what she wants. _Reid analyzed automatically. _No wonder the departments going to pieces at her leaving. They probably have no idea how to function without her. _Morgan's thoughts, however, were clearly on another matter entirely as followed the slim woman.

"Hot _damn." _He said, eyes on her- well, you can guess where. Reid cocked one eyebrow. _Only Morgan._

"Classy." Prentiss muttered, giving him a withering look.

They entered a room with a bulletin board set up and table clearly prepared for them.

"Does this suit your purposes?" Delaire asked.

"Perfectly." Rossi replied, always the gentleman.

Two men then entered the room. One was tall and blond, with close cropped hair and a severe, clearly antagonistic expression. He was handsome, but intense. His suit was quite similar to what Hotch wore every day, as was his black tie. The second was darker, with shoulder-length black hair, a peaceful expression and calming aura. He was wearing light beige dress pants and a chestnut brown dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a purple knit sweater vest. He was by no means short, but it was only now, compared to him, they noticed how tall the woman was. She was almost as tall as the first man, and certainly more so than the second.

"These are detectives Bloom –my second in command" she said, referring to the latter man "and McAllen. They are who you should go to if you can't find me, as they both report directly to me."

It was clear these were the two afore mentioned men. It was clear which of them wanted the BAU there- and which didn't. McAllen simply glared at them, while Bloom smiled and shook their hands as they introduced themselves.

"We'd like to get started by interviewing the families of the most recent victims." Rossi started. "Officers Parker and Rutherford. If possible, we'd also like to talk to those closest to them on the force, and to try to see if they'd made any sort of breakthrough in their theories which could have prompted the un-sub to take action."

"You don't need to do that, we've already interviewed the families and friends." McAllen stated harshly.

"Actually, we like to re-do the important interviews from a more behavioural perspective. We tend to ask different types of questions." Prentiss cut in smoothly.

"That is perfectly fine." Delaire replied, shooting her subordinate a glance which spoke of nothing good. "We can have the families come in while you talk our men."

Rossi smiled at her. "Thank you, that would be greatly appreciated. Dr. Reid will stay here and begin the geographical profile, and set up everything else he'll need, if that's fine."

She nodded. "Anything we can do to help. If you'll excuse me, McAllen will show you to the interview rooms."

"Of course." He responded.

* * *

Greg smiled softly. It was almost time. **She** had been so excited when he left. It had filled him with joy to see **her** so happy with him. His smile faltered as how unhappy **she** would be if he failed- or if they weren't as exciting as **she** had hoped. He almost flinched, remembering what had happened last time **she** had been unhappy with him. He detested disappointing **her**. Especially when **her** expectations were so high… he needed to make **her** happy. He didn't know what he'd do if **she** decided that he wasn't worthy anymore.

Despite all the stress jumping around his insides, he couldn't help but enjoy the chase. It stirred an ancient instinct in him as he watched the agents. Soon it would be time, and then he would take the ones **she** had chosen. And then the game would truly start. _How long would they hold out?_ He wondered. He wondered how close the team would get, how far they would deteriorate before the end. And for a second he even wondered who would win. He smirked and even laughed out loud for a moment, before shaking his head. That was something there was no doubt over. **SHE** always won. **SHE** would never loose. Especially not when **SHE** knew everything about them, and they knew nothing about **her**. Still, some nights he stayed up and worried about what would happen if he failed, if they were caught. He knew he would die before letting them take **her**.

He would always protect **her**. And entertain **her**.

And with that, he took out the equipment from his bag and prepared to take **her** two newest toys. The best yet.

* * *

Morgan sighed and ran his fingers back over his head, feeling stubble. It was eleven thirty at night, and while he most certainly had had later nights, he was tired. They'd spent the rest of the day interviewing everyone they could find. No one knew anything about any breakthroughs that the partners might have had, the time pocket when they had disappeared couldn't be narrowed down to less than 12 hours, and they still had no idea how the un-sub was kidnapping his victims or where they had been taken from. The dump sites were clearly important to the victims, so they were meant to send a message. This severely hindered the geographic profile.

The dark man turned and looked over at Reid, in the silent van beside him. His lips were faintly moving, and his brow was furrowed. They had practically had to drag him away from his work to get some sleep. It was obvious to them all he would have happily pulled an all-nighter studying the difficult and intriguing case. Since they didn't know for certain where the un-sub had taken any of the victims from, nor the secondary location where they were kept, the young genius had his work cut out for him. Then again, didn't they all? Things were already at a boiling point within the investigation. McAllen had snapped at Reid several times, clearly feeling resentful that he had been helping, or babysitting as he perceived it, the young agent. Finally Hotch had asked him if he had any problem with the way the BAU was handling the case, and, well, it had progressed from there.

Morgan's thoughts were interrupted as they pulled up in front of the hotel the team would be staying at, as close as possible to the police station. He yawned and stretched as the busboy took their bags, saying he would get them up to their rooms. The BAU were dead on their feet as they checked in. In fact, they were too tired to really argue when the receptionist informed them that they could not be given rooms close to one another, and quickly parted with hurried goodnights. Except, of course, for Reid, who had to be reminded to go to his room. Even in his semi-conscious state, Derek had to smirk at him, and resolved to make fun of him for it tomorrow when they were awake enough to appreciate it.

He entered the room, looking forward to laying down and forgetting all about the day, the case. But when he looked for his bags, he couldn't find them. _Great. Just the perfect end to the perfect day. _He sighed and dialed the number for the front desk. When he asked where his bags could be, he could actually hear the sounds of her texting while she gave the pre-determined answer in a monotone.

"If your bags aren't in your room, they must still be in your car. We sincerely apologize for any inconvenience this will cause."

Morgan thanked her while recognizing that what that really meant was 'go get them yourself and suck it up'. For a minute he considered not getting them, then shook his head. _How lazy could I possibly be? _

As he descended the stairs, he never guessed that this could actually be a mistake, never had any premonitions of things going wrong, never supposed anything could go so terribly wrong. All that was on his mind was sleep and a vague annoyance at the bellboy who he was sure had said he would grab his bags. That all changed when he turned a corner in the dark underground parking lot and saw the scene in front of the BAU's van.

* * *

**So, things are kinda picking up a bit! And by the way, yes, I do get this really strange sense of satisfaction out of making Morgan make an ass of himself... it's strangely addictive. Once again, please tell me what you think! **

_**Can you see it staring from across the room?**_

_**You glance at it, it starts to swoon,**_

_**Don't deny it, you know it's true **_

_**The review button lu-uvs you! **_

**No, seriously, do it. Or face more of my bad poetry.**


	3. Chapter 3

****

He-ey! Here's the next chapter *wild applause*! By the way, I'm trying my best with Morgan. I find it WAY easier to write as Reid- or really any other character- than him. It's a pain I must suffer through though, since I love him and Reid's relationship. Which, btw, is NOT going to be romantic. I've decided this one's just going to be about their friendship, nothing more. Anyway, I'm trying not to make him OOC, but it's so damn hard... so tell me if I am. I don't relate to him very well (P.E. is the only class I've ever done badly in) so imma need all the help I can get with him.

**WARNINGS: psychological and physical torture, profanity **

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Still working on the Reid thing. **

* * *

Reid yawned distractedly as he went to punch in his room's level into the elevator's control panel. He stopped, confused, when it said that the level's only went from one to twenty eight. It took him at least a minute to figure out that some buildings had an elevator for the bottom floors and another for the upper ones. His brow became even more furrowed as he wondered why that was. Maybe to ensure that if an elevator fell it wouldn't go to far? No, that was unlikely. They were held up by extremely strong steel cables, which meant that the amount of elevators that fall was extremely low. It was probably to shorten the wait for elevators. If you needed to wait for a car to come all the way from the top, it would be a much longer wait than if you had to switch halfway through. Or would it? He forcibly stopped the calculations that automatically began running through his fried brain.

He rubbed his eyes. The team was right. He did need sleep. That, of course, started him automatically calculating the average amount of sleep he got a night. So it was no wonder he was distracted when he stepped off the elevator on the twenty-eighth floor and sat in front of the sign saying out of order on the doors that should be opening and carrying him to the fortieth floor. He shook the cobwebs from his brain and headed for the stairs. He had never exactly been athletic, and had no illusions about how much the next few minutes were going to suck.

His head was soon foggy with another cause entirely. He gasped for breath as he rounded the thirty-sixth floor. _Only the thirty-sixth? It can't be. There's no way I can climb another four floors._ Reid stopped for a minute, and could practically hear Morgan's laughter in his head. He gritted his teeth and continued. _Who the hell makes stairs this steep?_

He turned up the next flight. Later he wished that he had looked up, just for a second. That he had had the foresight to check to see if he was alone in the stairwell. That he had realized how vulnerable he was at the minute. As it was, all he had done was turn the corner, wrapped up in his thoughts. As it was, he didn't have a chance. All he saw was a dark figure and then the prick in the side of his neck made everything go just as black as the man's shirt. As it was, all he could think was _Morgan's going to kill me_ before he couldn't think anything for a very long while.

* * *

Morgan stood in shock for a moment as he blinked and tried to resister the scene in front of him. _I've got to be dreaming. _He thought. _There is no way this is actually happening._

A tall, well-muscled man dressed in black, complete with opera mask, was holding his youngest co-worker up. Reid looked like a puppet that had had its strings cut. He was obviously drugged, and Morgan felt a shot of relief when he noticed that he was still breathing. _Thank God._ The relief soon dissipated, however, when he saw the gun that was being held to his head. His body was on autopilot as he went for his own gun, which was holstered at his side. Before he could get it though, a calm voice crackled through the air.

"I wouldn't do that, Derek. Not unless you think you can reach it before I can pull the trigger." The psychopath before him had a small smile on his face, like they were sharing a secret. _How the hell does he know my name?_ Morgan thought, before slowly raising his hand in front of him.

"Okay man, we can talk about this. Why don't you just put the gun away, and we can sit down like civilized people and sort this out."

The man appeared to consider his offer for a minute before his smile broadened slightly and he replied, in the same eerily calm voice. "No, Derek, I don't think I will. Actually, I would much prefer it if you put your gun down on the ground and came and gave me your cell phone. Does that sound like a reasonable suggestion? Oh, and if you'd be so kind as to remember that I do still have a gun pointed at dear Spencer's head, I would most certainly appreciate it."

His tone freaked Morgan out to no end. He was extremely polite, yet there was an edge to his voice that made it clear that no argument would be tolerated. He made a few mental calculations, trying to see if he could grab the gun before the man could use it. He doubted it. He did NOT like playing the odds where his co-worker's- no, his friend's- life was on the line.

"Fine. Let's just keep real calm." He said as he placed his only weapon on the cold concrete floor "I'm no threat to you. You can put your gun down to. The ball's in your court." Morgan started to slowly approach him, step by step. _If I can just get close enough… _

"Yes, you are quite right. The metaphorical ball IS in my court, so to speak. If you could stop walking, now, that would be perfect."

This time his smile was brilliant, and Morgan could see for the first time that this man was probably incredibly good looking. Morgan was only about five feet away from the man. He wasn't quite close enough to make a move, but he was defiantly close enough to see every detail of Reid's face. He didn't appear to be harmed in any way, for which the older agent was glad. _Now if only I could get close enough to get the gun. _

"Thank you. You've been a marvelously good sport about all this. Now take your cell phone out of you pocket, if you please."

Morgan had to play along, _just for a few more minutes, until I can secure Reid. _He told himself this, and yet a part of him said he wouldn't get a chance after this. Boy, would he later wish he'd listened. In hindsight, the un-sub had been waiting for the moment his eyes were turned away and his hands were occupied fetching the phone from his pocket. It was then that he heard something, or rather someone, be dropped on the ground like a sack of potatoes and as he turned to confront it, felt the prick in the side of his neck. All he had time to think before the world went black was _shit! I'm sorry Reid. _And then, as an afterthought _Hotch is gonna kill me! _

_

* * *

_

Prentiss tapped her foot impatiently. Hotch, Rossi and JJ had already been picked up by one of the detectives and taken to the station. She had volunteered to stay behind and wait for Morgan and Reid, more to save them from Hotch's wrath than anything else. She glanced at her watch. 8:17. _Dammit! They were already fifteen minutes late! _She would expect this kind of thing from Morgan, but Reid? He was normally anally retentive about being on time. _Except for THAT time… _She crushed the thought as it started. That period was over for him, and she refused to suspect him of anything. Though, it was true that he was only late when something was really wrong. Prentiss felt a flutter of something in between fear and doubt in her usually rational brain. She automatically pushed it to the back of her mind. _Worrying is not going to help anyone. Reid probably stayed up all night thinking about the case and missed his alarm. Morgan is probably almost ready, and just forgot what time to meet in the lobby. _

So she stood. And waited. And waited. Until, around 8:28, when, thinking murderous thoughts and envisioning bloody scenarios, she gave in to the tiny voice in her head that just kept saying _What if?_ Telling herself it was to get them out of bed and in the car, but, if she was totally honest with herself, to make sure they were fine, she took the elevator to the fifteenth floor, where Morgan had slept. When she entered the room her sense of misgiving increased exponentially.

The room was empty. But it was more than that. Though there were a few things moved slightly, and the bed had been sat on briefly, it was clear no one had slept there. On top on that, Morgan's bags were not there. Though someone had been in the room, her colleague was most certainly missing. Though there were no signs of a struggle, she felt a flutter of panic, thinking of the kidnapped police officers. _Whoa, girl. Don't jump to any conclusions. He could have not liked his room and got a transfer. Maybe he's with Reid. _Unlikely, but possible. She shook her head. She would figure this out, but first things first. She needed to find Reid.

She took the elevator to the twenty-eighth floor, which happened to be her floor. She frowned. Prentiss could have sworn that there had been a man putting up an out of order sign on the elevator to the upper floors last night. That would certainly explain their youngest member sleeping in.

The second she got to Reid's room she knew something was wrong. Though Reid's bags were in the room, clearly having been brought up by the hotel staff, his shoulder bag was not there. It was also quite clear that Reid had never entered the room. Nothing was touched. At all. All the fear that had been slowly accumulating since it had started to bubble up when they hadn't turned up in the morning spilled over. Taking a second to calm herself, she was about to phone Hotch when it occurred to her the panic it would cause at the station when this got out. No, it was better to take the van to the station so she could tell him in private, without risking people overhearing their phone conversation.

That, and she **really** did not want to believe this was happening.

She also wasn't really looking forward to telling the rest of the team.

Especially Hotch.

She all but ran to the underground parking lot to find their black SUV. When she turned the corner, she froze. It was gone. Feeling in her pocket out of reflex, she discovered her keys were too.

_Fuck. What the HELL is going on? _

* * *

Reid woke blearily, desperately trying to remember what had happened last night. _This is what Morgan must feel every Sunday morning. _Just as he thought the joke, he started worrying. His brain only made jokes when it was scared. At that moment, the attack on the stairwell flashed through his mind. _Crap. _All of a sudden he was totally awake and assessing the situation. He was seated upright in a sturdy chair. It was clearly made of metal, or possibly really heavy wood. His hands were chained behind his back, and to the chair. His ankles were shackled to the posts of the chair.

What else? Oh yes, he couldn't see anything. But he couldn't feel a blindfold, do it must be dark in the room. At least, he thought it was a room. He couldn't feel much air flow, though it was freezing cold, so he assumed he was in an enclosed space.

Wait a minute... he, or they? He could feel someone else's hands chained to his. It was this realization that made the cogs in his head start to turn. The case they were working on. The un-sub that took in pairs. Two police officers had been taken, it was clear that the person responsible was confident. It was a reasonable assumption that they were quite capable of taking an FBI agent. They were probably getting off on the power over the investigation, and had decided to take it to the next level. But why, oh why, had they taken Reid? _Why do these things always happen to me? _He gave himself a mental slap. This was no time for self pity.

The feeling was coming back into his fingers, and the cobwebs the drugs had left were finally fading. They were replaced with a pounding headache. Fingers of nausea tugged at his stomach and it was all he could do not to throw up all over himself. Despite this, he was slowly becoming more aware of himself. He now had enough strength for it to occur to him to tug at the chains. It was clear they wouldn't give was, but he continued to try, to give something for him to focus on. It halted to=he onset of panic, and the bloody images from the case file.

Then he heard a low moan from behind him. It was clearly a male, and the noise sounded vaguely familiar. It was whoever he had been taken with. Though he would appreciate the company, he prayed that it was not one of his team. His one wish in that moment was that no one he cared about would be subjected to the torment he had no illusions was coming. He knew it was selfish, but he couldn't help it. He tugged at the bonds harder, feeling a drop of blood running down his wrists. He knew it wouldn't help, but he needed to stay focused right now. The pain helped.

As another moan echoed in the near-silent air, he realised that this had to be someone he knew well. That voice was just to familiar... The only question was who it was.

* * *

After he had been knocked out, Morgan had slowly come to his senses tied up in the back of a car. He couldn't quite move, the drug was still in effect as he bounced around in the trunk for a long time... it could have been hours, or days, or minutes. He didn't know. He couldn't feel or see Reid, but he assumed he was with them. Then they rode over a bump, and he let out a strangled yelp. This clearly alerted his captor that he was awake, because he felt the car pull over. The man from before opened the trunk, and through the drug induced haze Morgan saw the man from before, heard him mutter something about dosage. _Ha. So the bastard screwed up. _His thoughts were vicious, happy for anything to go wrong for the son of a bitch who had taken him and his friend.

His brief moment of pleasure faded fast as the man took out a needle. He tried to struggle, to move away, to fight in any way he could. However, despite his determination, he still had little to no control over his body- and he was tied up in a trunk. Not the greatest condition to fight off the strong arms that pinned him to the car floor and stuck afore-mentioned needle in his neck.

As he tried to fight the expected stupor, he could see the trunk shutting and his only chance for escape with it. As his vision blurred and he struggled to keep his eyes open, his last thoughts were regretful. If this was what he suspected, then it was unlikely he would get another chance. As everything turned black, and darkness enfolded his brain, the most creative thing he could think was a tired _shit. _This was gonna suck so badly.

As Morgan came to a second time, the first thing his body registered was a dull ache all over. The trip in the trunk had not done anything good to him. As his eyes blinked open, he heard a groan. It took him a few seconds to realize it was his own. He then proceeded to register that his mouth was hanging open. He quickly closed it and raised his head. There was a dull rattling sound from the chains that fastened his hands behind him. Someone else was tried behind him, and they weretugging at the chains that attached their hands together. Morgan could feel already that they were NOT going to get anywhere. He could also feel a warm, thick liquid running down his hands dripping onto the floor.

_Blood? _It wasn't coming from him, as far as he could tell, which must mean- oh god. He would kill anyone who hurt Reid. Assuming it was Reid tied up... only one way to figure that one out.

"Reid?" His voice sounded strange in the enclosed space. It was weird not being able to see anything. That being said, it wasn't like anything about this situation was normal.

As he spoke, the tugging stopped.

"Morgan?" came the wavering reply. It was clearly him, and Morgan felt a rush of relief. He didn't hear any pain in the young genius' voice, so he couldn't be too hurt. Despite how much he hated that Reid, who had already been taken once in this job, had to go through it all again, he couldn't quite suppress a hint of relief. He trusted Reid, which wasn't common for him. He had no doubts of Reid's capabilities. When Hankle had taken him, he had managed to alert them of his position and Morgan felt a flare of hope. If there was a way out of this situation, Reid could find it.

"Are you hurt?" He asked.

"Not badly. I think I may have hurt myself a tiny bit tugging at the chains."

"A **tiny bit**?" Morgan was incredulous. "There's blood running everywhere. You gotta stop that, Pretty Boy."

"Oh. Maybe I did go a little far." Reid quickly changed the subject. "How did you get captured? He blitzed me in the staircase."

Morgan bit his lip. Reid was probably going to blame himself for Morgan's capture. But Morgan couldn't think of a reason not to tell him.

"Well, my bags weren't in my room, and the front desk said I had to get them from the SUV myself. But when I got there you were unconscious and he had a gun. He tricked me into coming closer and caught me off guard with a needle. I woke up in a trunk, but I was immobilized and he gave me another shot before I could do anything."

Reid had remained silent throughout the tale. When Morgan finished, he was silent for a minute before speaking.

"I should have paid more attention, this is my fault. We've probably been taken by the un-sub. I should have seen this coming. It's an obvious escalation. I've been studying this guy, I should have seen it. I-"

Morgan cut off his self-blaming tirade mid sentence. "Now listen here, kid. This is not your fault."

He would have continued, but just at that moment they heard the unmistakable sound of door hinges creaking and locks being undone. They were about to face the one who had taken them.

* * *

**So. That's the third chapter for you. I know Reid gets kidnapped a LOT, and it's a kinda overused plot device, but I couldn't help it. He's just so, _so... kidnappable. _No, you shouldn't ask. I promise that this will be original though. As far as I know (and I read a LOT of fanfiction) this is gonna have totally new plot twists and devices coming up. Mostly due to my un-sub. Not gonna let anything slip, but this is gonna get really messed up really fast. **

**P.S. REVIEW! When you don't review, it makes the me AND the review button really sad. I'm not gonna lie, me sad is not pretty. But I've got nothing on the review button. All I'm saying is, if you value your life and sanity, I would indulge it. Just this once. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Wow. **

**I had no idea people actually liked my writing! Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed/subscribed to me/my story. Me AND the review button are happy! I wasn't so sure about last chapter, so it's nice to know that you guys liked it. About the whole slash thing: I don't really think that Morgan/Reid works with the story I'm writing, so imma save that for another day and another fanfic. That, however, does NOT mean that I can't throw in a few awkward/suggestive/fangirl scream worthy scenes in... heh heh heh... **

**WARNING: psychological and physical torture, swearing, ect. **

**DISCLAIMER: if I owned anything do you really think I would be writing this? **

* * *

Greg sighed. He had been up for way too long. Who knew that driving could be so tiring? _Don't think like that. _He told himself, _you know SHE's always right. We can't be close to the police. They're stupid, but still, precautions are the reason we're still free. _He shook his head to free the unworthy thought. _NO! That's not right, SHE is the reason we're still free. Nothing else. _He continued walking down the steel hallway.

He was glad SHE had told him to use sedative. He had a feeling the big FBI agent would have caused trouble, and he wasn't sure he could take him while keeping the young doctor secure. It was incredible hard to think of the tall, thin man as an agent. Though SHE had reminded him countless times not to underestimate their guests, he still had trouble viewing the intelligent ones as equal threats as the physical ones.

Even SHE couldn't deny that they were much harder to take, much more prone to desperate actions. They always caused problems... And he HATED problems. He thought back to the incident in the car. Who could have known that Derek -as SHE insisted he was referred- would have woken from the substantial dose of sedative Greg had administered before the correct time? Though he was terrified SHE would be angered by this, instead SHE had seemed happy.

He couldn't help but share her elation, despite the jealousy he knew was a sign of just how unworthy he was of being near her. They would certainly be entertaining. He had a feeling they would not let HER down. Greg was glad he had someone to rely on in this situation. If they hadn't proved to be up to standards, he didn't know what he'd do! It would be simply horrible.

His thoughts eventually rested upon and remained on his speculation of what SHE would have him do to them. He anticipated this would be one of the long ones. And boy, did he ever love the long ones.

Greg allowed himself a quick grin. He knew all about these agents, and was looking forward to exploiting that. Before, he had thought that he had known how to have fun. Then SHE had come along and showed him a whole world that he'd never imagined. He owed HER everything and he knew it. He would do whatever SHE wanted, and he never expected anything back. He wasn't worthy of wanting anything from HER. No one was.

Despite this, he had a nagging in the back of his mind. He did NOT think it was a good idea for HER to meet them. He knew that it was what SHE wanted, and that SHE was always right, but he wasn't happy with plan. He hated the thought of her in danger, and he hated his role in the theatrics with a passion. But it would be fine. He had to convince himself of it. After all, who could he trust if not her?

* * *

Morgan and Reid blinked and attempted to shield their eyes as bright, white light came flooding into the room. It was pretty hard with their hands tied behind their backs. But the idea was there. As their eyes adjusted, the room around them came into focus.

Reid took the first opportunity to examine his surroundings, staring with wide eyes. They were in an average sized room that had the walls and ceiling painted bright, scarlet red. The floor was made up of black and white tiles that were about an inch squared each. They formed a large spiral that's center was below him and Morgan. The room was a precise square, he noted, and the chairs that they sat on were metal and welded to the floor. _No chance of moving those... _The only other furniture in the room was a chandelier above their heads. He shuddered. The chandelier was made of a dull, dark grey metal. It also have black silk ribbons and bright, silver chains hanging from it. He noted the black gemstones. _Fake, but very well done. Expensive. This un-sub has money, and lots of it. It's unlikely that the team will be able to trace this facility. It's probably extensive and below ground. _Just more good news.

He turned his head to the door. It was surrounded by lights, which was where the blinding rays originated. The chandelier let off a softer, red glow. It the doorway stood a tall, lithe but well-muscled man. He carried himself in a way that suggested easy power and control. He had the body of a gymnast, or a ballerina. His features were chiselled, handsome in a haughty way. He had a light tan and dark hair. Reid automatically memorised the features, getting stuck for a second in the black eyes, which pulled him down like wells of tar. Though his lips were pulled into a faint, mysterious smile, those were undeniably the eyes of a killer.

The man was wearing black, silk dress pants, and a black dress shirt. He also had a high-quality black vest on. The shirt was buttoned up all the way, but Reid caught a glimpse of something underneath it. A collar of some form, maybe? He was pulled from his musings when Morgan's voice rung out across the room.

"Where are we and what are you doing with us, you freak?" Morgan was obviously very, very angry. Reid really couldn't blame him. The guilt returned as he heard the faint undertone of fear in his friend's voice. How could he have let himself be taken that easily? He was a trained FBI agent, for god's sake! It was HIS fault Morgan was stuck in this situation. He had no doubts that Morgan would not have been taken if not for his desire to protect Reid. He shoved the thoughts down before they could do to much damage though. Right now he needed to focus.

As Morgan spoke, the man's smile became a grin. His teeth were bright white, and his smile was like a spotlight. A very sharp, dangerous spotlight. He responded in a calm, smooth and clearly well educated voice.

"Well, I do think that would ruin the game if I told you now, wouldn't it? As for what I'm doing with you, well, let's just say you'll find out soon enough. If you know too much, all the suspense is gone. And nothing ruins a game like knowing who wins. However, I might warn you in advance that the odds are significantly stacked against you, and my record is perfect. Not to brag, of course. Nothing is worse than an arrogant winner." His smile flashed, and he let out a charming laugh.

"This is not a game." Morgan fought to keep his voice even "This is real life, and you're holding to FBI agents against our will. If you let us go now, you'll get off lighter. Our team WILL find us, and when they do all HELL is going to break loose all over your head. Do you really want that?"

Reid knew it wasn't going to work even before their captor opened his mouth. He would have heard all this before, and was clearly delusional. Though not as much so as the profile would suggest. There was something missing from their data. Something important, he was willing to bet. There was only one thing to do: figure out what it was.

* * *

Morgan bit down on the red hot anger that bubbled up at seeing the cool, expressionless man. Last time they had met, he had been holding a gun to Reid's head with exactly the same look- or lack thereof. He couldn't believe he'd let himself be taken! How could he have let down his friend like that? Fuck, he was SUPOSED to protect him. And now look where they were. Trying to reason with a delusional psychopath.

"Well, you certainly seem confidant!" The bastard spoke again. "It's nice that you're so... _enthusiastic._ This will be fun!"

Morgan opened his mouth for a seething retort, when a small, calm voice from behind him sounded.

"If it's not too much trouble, might you inform us to the rules of this game? It's hardly fair that we aren't aware of them."

_What. The. Hell. _He knew Reid knew not to play along with an un-sub's delusion until you had no other options. Was he trying to get them killed? They could still escape this, they still had a chance.

The man's- no, Morgan refused to see it as a man- the _monster's _smile broadened. "But of course! How silly of me. Typical of you, Spencer, to be so rational. I'm afraid Derek's temper needs some help. The only rules you need to know are these: all actions have consequences. You may do whatever you want to survive, if you can, but if a ploy or plot fails, you'll find things can always get worse. As the game progresses, more rules may come into play. For now, however, this is all you need."

All of the un-sub's attention was on Reid. Morgan hadn't warned him that he knew their names and was using them, and he regretted it now. He needed the genius to keep it together, they would need him. He suspected that he had a plan already forming. All he could do now was watch and wait. Right now, he could sense that he was useless.

"Your role in this game, however, confuses me. You clearly know all the tricks and turns of it. You know all the rules and strategies, and seem to have a god-like role in it. Yet you present yourself as a player and competitor. My question is this: are you governing the game, part of the game, or are you a competitor as well, albeit an experienced one? And finally, why were we selected to play this game? It's not really a game if we're not willing is it?"

The man frowned slightly, then tapped his nose. "All will become clear. In the meantime, there are more pressing matters. Why on earth did you injure yourself so? It's quite upsetting so see blood so early and without cause."

Morgan had forgotten about Reid's wrists. The mention of it being early frightened him. It was plain that this... game... was not going to be without pain for them. He could only hope that he would be the one to undergo most of the torture. He would hate himself if he let anything happen to Reid.

"We're going to have to get that cleaned up." The man continued "Let me fetch someone."

At this Morgan's brain went haywire. _Get someone? Are there other people involved? Earlier victims, or partners? What is going on? _As he occupied himself with his musings, the man left and returned with a girl in tow. Her hands were bound in front of her, and she held a bucket and mop in them, which couldn't have been easy. She was incredibly pale, and looked to be in her late teens. Her hair was incredibly pale reached her virtually non-existent waist in tangled curls. She was very thin, but was clearly very pretty in an elfin sort of way. Her ghost-like appearance was only added to by the loose, flowing white dress she wore. Her feet were bare.

Morgan's heart went out to her as she was gracelessly shoved in to their room but the man.

"Unfortunately, dear Miranda is the only servant currently at my disposal. It's so hard to find good ones these days. Now, if you would remain silent, that would be greatly appreciated. I'll wait outside until she's finished." He turned to leave the room, but was stopped by Reid's voice.

"That's not fair. You havn't mentioned how- er, Miranda, did you say her name was?- fits into-"

He was cut short by the man, who turned, murder in his eyes.

"I told you NOT TO TALK!" A short stick seemed to appear in his hand as he swung around and smashed it into Reid four times, before whacking him over the side of the head. Reid slumped down, unconscious. Morgan didn't realize he had called out until he was closing his mouth. Before he could spit out all the things building up inside him, the man turned to him.

"It'll be worse for you both if you say anything. Remember, actions have consequences." He appeared to physically pull his composure back before strutting out of the room. Morgan turned his head as far as he could and watched the girl mop up the blood from the floor, then use a cloth to wipe down their hands and Reid's forehead. She did the whole thing avoiding eye contact with him, despite his attempts. All he could do was wait until she left, closing the heavy metal door as she left. As it closed, the lights turned off, leaving them in total darkness again.

_Fuck. We need to get out of here. _

* * *

Hotch internally raged as he read through the case files once again. He was supposed to be at the crime scene with Morgan at that very moment, but of course he was missing. He was shocked that the man he trusted with his life, and was grooming to replace him when the time came would be late. He had a terrible suspicion that something was very wrong, but he was doing his best to hide it. And his best was very, VERY good.

He was glad that he had left Prentiss there, despite it leaving them a total of three agents short. The policemen were glaring and defiantly not appreciating their unresponsive answers to questions over where the last members of their team were. Hotch was going to kill the two men if this was a simple case of lateness. It was totally unprofessional and shocking behaviour on a case as serious as this one. However, he had a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that this was more than an embarrassing display. What could have made them late? He couldn't help but consider the case they were working on. If they were both missing... He didn't want to think about it.

He knew that Rossi and JJ were both very worried. He had ensured that they were well occupied by work at all times, to prevent the unhealthy speculation he knew was going to happen. They didn't need distractions right now.

He heard a loud fast, clicking pace which alerted him of the presence of Ms. Delaire. He looked up to see that the expression on her face was anything but good.

"Agent Hotchner? We need to talk." Hotch followed he out of the room. He had a feeling he knew what was coming.

* * *

Prentiss took a moment to calm herself before entering the headquarters. The already frazzled policemen did not need to see her in a state of panic. She ran a hand over her blouse, smoothing out the crinkles. She had been forced to take a cab, and it had not been a pleasurable experience. Taking a deep breath in, she expertly placed a mask firmly over her emotions, keeping her face totally blank. Curious eyes followed her as she crossed the floor, dodging desks and messengers. Ensuring that everything about her movement emphasised purposefulness to avoid questioning, she walked towards the room the team was using.

Just as Prentiss was arriving, Hotch exited Sylvia Delaire's office. His ever so slightly distressed expression and the way he ran a hand through his usually impeccable hair made guessing that it had not been a good conversation easy. She swooped in, simultaneously leaning in to speak to him and lightly seizing his arm to make sure he knew that it was incredibly urgent, she told him they needed to talk. He nodded his assent, guessing what it was about and that his agent meant privately.

Once they were in a small room, alone with the blinds drawn, she turned to him and relayed what she had seen. After she had finished, Prentiss paused before speaking again.

"Something is clearly wrong. I know it's a little early to draw any conclusions, but I think it's a good idea to at least consider it an option that the case has something to do with this. If the un-sub was bold enough to take two police officers, than they are by all means escalating, and what with their previous success, it's not a stretch to imagine them taking two FBI agents." Seeing no sign from her boss saying if she should continue or not, she took it as a 'go ahead'. "The fact that two of our agents are missing can't be a coincidence. On top of that, there is no sign as to where, if they were abducted, they were taken from. All of this fits into the M.O. Add to that the fact that both Morgan and Reid are incredibly good agents, with more than enough experience in the field not to just leave without telling anyone, and that we have no idea of this un-subs capabilities? I don't want to incite panic anymore than you do, but everything we have points to the worst case scenario."

Prentiss hoped that she was not out of line. She didn't want Hotch to think that this was the case and the tension getting to her. On top of that, she really did not want Hotch to regard this as overdramatic as she knew that to one thing they didn't want to do was panic the officers by appearing to be hiding things from them. All in all, she hoped that she wasn't just being paranoid and that Hotch would see it. It was a minute before he spoke.

"I hate to admit it, but there's a good chance you're right. We shouldn't treat it as a certainty, but we need to tell the team. I don't want to panic the investigators though, so we will consider it a strong possibility. If we find any more information, or if they don't show up within twenty-four hours, than we will assume that they have been taken. In the meantime, you brief the team. They will continue working the case, but I want you to investigate Morgan and Reid. I-" here he sighed, letting some of his frustration show on his face "-need to deal with Ms. Delaire. She is certain we are hiding things from her and is furious that I won't tell her where my agents our. I told her as much as I could, but we are going to have trouble soon."

Prentiss realized she should probably leave now, but felt that now she had her boss' attention, she should make full use of it.

"Might it not be a good idea to tell her our suspicions now? She is definitely a better ally than enemy. The police department, for the most part, trusts her implicitly. She could keep McAllen off our backs and give us some leeway."

Hotch thought for a moment.

"True. My only reservation is that she may not believe us, or us the information without our disclosure. Do you think McAllen is going to be a serious problem?"

Prentiss paused, happy Hotch was asking her input.

"Yes. Yesterday, he was losing it at Reid for stupid reasons, and he doesn't trust us as it is. Now that we're obviously hiding information, he's going to try his hardest to find it out. And from what I've seen, he isn't the kind of man to back down. If she could get him under control, I would much rather roll the dice with her than him."

Hotch nodded his agreement. "The only wild card is Bloom. I'm not sure where he stands. We'll talk to the team, then while me and Rossi talk to Delaire, I'd like you to approach Bloom. See what you can get off him. We need more info."

Prentiss nodded as they left the room. She was elated that Hotch was putting his trust in her. Even though she knew that they considered her part of the team, she still sometimes felt like a third wheel on certain cases. Of course, the brief happiness halted abruptly when it occurred to her that two of the people she cared about the most were quite possibly in the hands of a psychopath. And suddenly she wished more than anything that she was wrong.

* * *

**Okay, I'm done... I suddenly lost inspiration halfway through this chapter, and had to take a break. Then I had this awesome idea for where this story is going in the middle of the night and I'm working on developing that right now. YAY! **

**As per usual, please review! I love knowing what I'm doing that you like and don't like. Mr Review button was really happy with all the new reviews last chapter, and is hoping for more. And so help me god, he may kill me if you don't comply. My life is in your hands. Only you have the power to review, and save my life. **

**BTW my chapter release schedule may slow down a bit from now on. I was on vacation, and, come tomorrow, I'm not. I will still release them at a reasonable speed though... I hope. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks to all who reviewed/subscribed! You make my life worth living. First day back, and already fucking ib math homework. Why do I even try? *dramatic sigh, showcasing soulful, poetic , tortured depths* Special thanks to Reidemption. I loves longer reviews. As does the review button, but more on that later... **

**This is gonna be the chapter when shit gets intense- or starts to. Just a warning. Imma focus on Reid and Morgan a lot more too. **

**WARNING: shit getting intense, psychological and physical torture, swearing, ect. **

**DISCLAIMER: yeah, I totally own CM and all its characters. I also own the Eiffel Tower and Pluto. And have tea with the queen of England on Sunday afternoons. **_**Sarcasm: the lowest form of wit, irony's rebellious evil twin and my best friend. **_

* * *

Greg released his pent up breath, desperately wanting to hit something, anything, but knowing that SHE would be displeased by it. He did not want to face her anger again; it cut into his soul like a burning knife. He hated, most of all, that he knew that it was all his fault, that he had let HER down and that he would never be worthy of HER mere presence. SHE had been so upset, it had torn him to shreds, when he had lashed out at the traitorous agent.'Spencer' needed to learn his place. Oh, he thought he was so sneaky, so smart right now. Greg would show him. Biting down on the unsanctioned wishes, he reminded himself that control was imperative. SHE had taught him that. And so he listened, no matter how hard it was to curb his instincts... or the tightness in the front of his silk trousers at the thought of what he would do... just as soon as SHE gave the order. Not before. No matter how tempting it was.

His thoughts flickered to 'Derek'. He would cause trouble. But, was that not a good sign? After all, trouble meant good, no, great entertainment. He was going to enjoy this one more than usual. He couldn't wait to show the muscular man that no matter how hard he tried, he wouldn't be able to protect anything. He was going to break this man, in exactly the way SHE wanted him too. And he was going to enjoy it. This time, he WOULD prove himself worthy of HER. He was going to live up to and exceed all HER expectations.

And that was the only thing that would ever give him any true satisfaction.

Because SHE was the only thing that mattered.

The only thing.

_The only thing. _

_The only thing. _

And he would to anything for HER.

* * *

Morgan stared into the blackness, trying to come up with something, anything he could do for his injured friend. They needed to escape. It was plain that there were plans in place for them, and ones he DID NOT want carried out. His eyes searched the blackness for anything of their surroundings. He wished he had taken a closer look while the lights were on, but his attention had been on their captor at the time, and he hadn't really considered the scenery a priority.

He sighed. Morgan hated to admit it, but being chained to a chair that was welded to the ground kind of took away any option to help Reid. He was worried though. That knock on the head had been pretty hard, if the sound it made had been any inclination. Reid had regain consciousness twice already, and though it was clear he had a mild concussion, Morgan had not been able to keep him awake. He knew that that was not a good thing. It's important to keep a concussion victim awake for about twenty four hours afterwards. Something about brain damage. He knew that he really should remember that, but he gave himself a bit of slack considering the situation.

He was started from his reverie but a faint groaning noise from behind him.

"Reid?" He called automatically. "Pretty boy? You waking up?"

"Murg'n?" came the dopey reply.

"Yeah, it's me. You need to stay awake, I think you may have a concussion." His brow wrinkled in concern. Reid had better be okay of so help him god, when he got his hands on the fucker...

"Right. Why can't I see anything?" Morgan gave an internal sigh of relief. His colleague sounded fine, just a little tired. Maybe he hadn't gotten a concussion? _What were the signs supposed to be, damn it? _

"The light's turned off after he left. That was after he knocked you out. Do you feel fine? Do you feel foggy at all? Have a headache?"

Reid's response was characteristically dry, with an ever so slightly condescending, and slightly reproachful edge to it. "Of course I don't feel fine. My head and stomach hurt like hell. I suspect minor internal bleeding. And I know the signs of a concussion just fine Morgan. They vary from person to person, anyways. I would say I have a very mild one, I probably won't see many symptoms past slight nausea, and a killer headache immediately. I'm not going to worry about long term effects right now though. If we're still here by the time they show up, we'll have other things to worry about."

Morgan heard the tension in Reid's voice the younger man was clearly trying to hide. He could tell he was very frightened indeed. They both needed something to occupy their minds, so he changed the subject.

"I can't figure out a way to get out. These chains are too secure, and these chairs ain't moving any time soon. I suspect the door is made out of solid metal, as well. We're most likely underground, and if my guess is worth anything, one hell of a long way from Seattle. We should have known this un-sub was too smart to hunt near his actual location. From the fact that this guy has this kind of set up, and can take the time to figure out his victims' schedules, we can assume he's wealthy enough to not have a job or one where he controls his hours. Right now, the only thing we can really do is hope he slips up, I suppose." Morgan paused. He was not at all pleased with this situation. As much as he hated it, they were in the palm of the bastard's hand. Reid didn't respond for a moment, and Morgan almost thought he wasn't going to.

"I'd deduced as much... This means there's only one thing we can do." Reid's tone sounded dull, but there was an edge of determination underneath.

"And what's that?" Morgan thought back. What could he have missed? His tone must have revealed his confusion, for there was a ghost of a sardonic smile in the younger man's next words.

"What do we get paid for?" he sighed slightly at how obvious it was before continuing. "It's time we got inside this guy's head. After all, there's never been a better opportunity. Two profilers locked up with one of the most intriguing serial killers we've looked at? This is the stuff of the dreams of any intellectual!" Reid's tone became slightly- Morgan shivered- excited at the prospect. He could be a little... frightening sometimes...

"Yeah, sounds great. Except for the whole high risk of extremely painful death thing..."

Reid waited a few moments before admitting that, yes, that did put a bit of a damper on things.

* * *

Greg smiled, in his own little bubble of happiness. He felt as if he were floating. SHE was happy, and they were awake, and it was time to have some fun. Time to prepare them, as SHE said. Time for the curtains to roll up and for the show to begin. He had not been disappointed with his mistress' plan. SHE was an artist, and he couldn't wait to put her orders into action. He could dance, he could fly, he could- _No. _He told himself, _you can't go in there like this! Control. Focus. Remember what SHE taught you. You can let loose later. You can keep your ecstasy to yourself. And when you do, it's so much better. Calm. Focus. Control. _He sighed. There was really only one thing for it, he supposed. He was quite behind on his yoga.

Time to hit the mats. But in a few hours, when he was centered and was once again connected with his inner peace, and with the world around his, then the two agents were going to discover just how vulnerable, just how powerless they were. He couldn't wait. _Damn,_ he was getting aroused again.

He turned down the lights, and lit a few scented candles. _Maybe I'll have a bath after this. Heaven knows I need a bit of relaxation right now. Hmm... I may even have to indulge in some of that jasmine oil. Or those ginger-citrus bubbles? _

Thinking calm, happy thoughts about what SHE wanted him to do whenever he saw fit, he began his breathing excises, legs crossed and palms facing down (he had gone for grounding himself rather than receiving more energy this session). Oh, today was going to be a good day. He could just feel it.

* * *

Reid struggled to keep his breathing under control. If it had it's way it would be coming out in fits and gasps. The pain in his chest was stabbing, and he had a terrible feeling one of his ribs was broken. He shifted his weight and- _OH GOD. Yep, that's broken. _He was having trouble keeping his voice steady, but he managed to do it. The only was he could do it was by remembering that it was his fault that Morgan was here. He needed Morgan focused and on task. Not worried about little old incompetent him. Though he knew, in the focused, workaholic, part of his brain that it had been worth it. When the un-sub had freaked out, he had seen something. Sure, he had been mad that Reid had disobeyed him, but there was something else. Possessiveness, a kind of protective jealousy even. He had hit Reid for going against his wishes, but that was just an excuse. It just added to the mystery. And he had a feeling the key to it all had something to do with the girl, Miranda.

But those were only suspicions. They needed more information, but more than that, Reid needed to straighten his confused thoughts. He slowly tuned in to what Morgan was saying, feeling slightly guilty about having been distracted in the first place.

"...you are right though, our greatest weapon is our profiling. It's pretty obvious this un-sub is highly organized, how else would he pull any of this off? He's also clearly delusional. I mean, did you see that outfit? And the whole game thing? Totally insane." Derek paused, waiting for the genius' reply. He felt Reid nod slowly, as their heads touched slightly when tilted back, as his was.

"True... But I have a suspicion he's a lot less delusional that he comes off as. He looked like the 'outfit' would not be his first choice. He was very efficient, and he recited the rule almost like he'd memorised it. He did cover it up with charisma, but he didn't appear to be the type who enjoyed the theatrics. I could be wrong, but it almost seemed like he was putting on a show for us."

"Okay, that is possible, but why go to all the trouble? It seems like he's used the room before, I'd guess most, if not all, of the victims were held here at one point or another. And the way he totally ignored the consequences of his actions... He's either hugely confidant or under a delusion." Morgan's brow was furrowed now. "And, speaking of which, why in god's name did you play along with his delusion? You know not to do that until you have to! If you're right about him, than we might have been able to convince him."

"I wanted to see how he reacted. And didn't you see his resolve? It was rock hard **(A/N lol. I wonder what else was rock hard...)**, there's no way he was letting us go. Every other one of the victims would have said similar things, and look how far it got them." He started rambling on about reactions under stress, highly organised serial killers and resolve, managing to mix in about a million statistics on every related topic imaginable. Morgan waited five minutes, still hoping it would stop on its own. No luck.

"Okay, okay, okay. Whatever. You were right, we need to focus on profiling this son-of-a-bitch."

Reid sounded apologetic. "Right. Point taken. I never said he wasn't delusional, I just think there's more to him. This IS like a game to him, and he's clearly a psychopath, but I feel there are other things motivating him." Reid paused, wondering whether or not to bring up his curiosity about the girl, and her role in all this. He knew Morgan was fiercely protective of victims, and didn't want to ruffle any feathers with the implications that his thoughts might have. _They're only vague feelings when it comes down to it, I suppose. There's no point bringing them up when there were other, more well-formed, theories to address. _Reid told himself that was his only reasoning, but he also wasn't sure of himself. It had been his screw-up that had landed them in this situation, and he would hate for some random thoughts of his to be acted upon and cause more problems.

They continued debating, scouring everything they'd remarked upon pre-kidnapping, and revising, reviewing all the assumptions they had made. In their focus, and intellectual states, they managed to ignore, to forget, the dark that pressed in on them from all sides, the remnants of slow drying blood on the chains that bound their wrists, and the psychopath in the next room. They managed to escape their situations, and just for a few moments, maybe even believed deep down that they WERE back with the team, inspecting the case like any other. Unfortunately, a simple thought, a simple belief, cannot lift us completely away for physical reality. It can protect us, shield us for a time. If it's a truly strong feeling, it may keep us safe in our minds for months, years even, but that, indeed is hard to come by. For no matter how great a thought, it is subject to the mind that holds it. And said mind is all too connected to the body that houses it. So, even if Morgan and Reid had been able to forget their surroundings, their surroundings had not forgotten them. One surrounding in particular wasn't likely to let them escape their situation any time soon.

And that surrounding's bath had just grown cold.

* * *

Morgan was dragged back to reality by the ominous sounds of several locks being slowly unlocked. He hissed at Reid, who was in the middle of a long chain of statistics. Reid barely registered it, and kept on ranting at the speed of light.

"REID. Stop. Someone's coming in." Reid heard the urgency in his voice, and a string of numbers died on his tongue. They both turned to the door.

"Don't worry; we'll get through this Pretty Boy." Morgan felt a strange urge to comfort his friend. He felt like he needed to say something.

Reid made a non-committal grunting noise in response. Not exactly an upstanding round of support of his statement.

"Seriously. I'm here to take care of you. We can get through this together." Morgan knew he couldn't let Spencer get hurt by this un-sub. He wouldn't be able to live with himself...

"Thanks Morgan. Don't worry about me though, I can-" The words were halted but the slightly screechy sound of the door finally opening.

They recognised the man who had taken them immediately. His eyes slowly appraised them, flowing over them without discretion. He smiled a dangerous, charming, all too unreadable- yet with clear intentions- smile. The man had changed, and looked... fresh. Morgan was used to Garcia's outlandish outfits, but he was still shocked by the black and white striped three piece suit the man wore. The top hat was also an interesting touch. He didn't spend very long appraising the bastard's outfit though. Morgan was a man of action, and sitting here waiting for the un-sub to speak drove him crazy. He refused to show the man any fear, and kept his eyes hard, cold, and angry, but that bright white smile scared the shit out of him. _Damn... He's waiting for us to break the tension. This is a battle of wills, it's clear that he won't give up. He NEEDS us to recognise his superiority... Fucker... Interesting though. Is there any merit to staying silent? No. I'm not showing this guy my neck. I'm not going to give him the satisfaction. _

By this time all of the man's attention was on Morgan. They were involved in a staring contest of sorts. It would be almost laughable, if not for the murder in the agent's eyes or the way the strange man's attempted to force submission. If not for the occasional plink of blood dripping to the floor. If not for the clink of chains at every tiny movement. If not for the scorching holes the men's gazes burned in each other.

It was the un-sub who broke the silent war- and the silence.

He gave an amused smile and pushed all the horrors that had been revealed in his eyes down, back into their black hole depths.

"It really is quite rude not to greet someone when they enter. Oh, well, you're forgiven. It's time to play around a bit! We're going to take a little walk, but first I've a present for dear Spencer. Sorry Derek, I was GOING to get you one, but I'm afraid they don't quite suit you. I do believe Spencer's will be enough to keep you both under control though."

Morgan did not want to know what the present was. He had a feeling nothing good. He needed to distract the un-sub from Reid.

"I'm sorry that my manners aren't up to your standards." He spat out sarcastically. "For the last time, you can't just kidnap two federal agents and hold them against their will without repercussions. If you think you can get away with this, you are sorely mistaken. Do you even know why you're doing this?"

The man just grinned at him, and took out a shiny metal band from some unidentifiable pocket. Morgan recognised it immediately and his eyes widened. _Is this sick son of a bitch really putting THAT on him? You've got to be kidding me... _

"Oh, Derek. Of course I know. This will look so lovely on you, Spencer." The man viscously grabbed Reid by the hair and pulled his head up, ignoring the yelp of pain that accompanied it. Morgan, unable to do anything- or even see what was happening behind him, could only yell. His shouts went just as unrecognised as the noises Reid tried not to let out, and only half succeeded. The man went as far as to hum quietly to himself as he fastened the collar tight around the younger man's neck, and locked the sophisticated looking clasp. He slowly turned to face them both, and waited for Morgan of stop shouting. When he quieted down, the psychopath resumed speaking in a clam, quiet, slow, deadly voice.

"Now, we're going to go for a walk. Rest assured there will be no stops along the way, and if you attempt to... well, do anything _stupid, _then we're going to have some problems. I might just have to do this." Before they could blink, or in Morgan's case swear violently, the man whipped out a black remote and pressed a button. There was a noise like a dull whump and a faint crackle, a millisecond before Morgan felt Reid's body spasm behind him, and an ear piercing shriek resounded around the enclosed space.

_The mother fucker seriously put a shock collar on him. I'm going to kill him. _

Before Morgan could let his thoughts be heard, the man raised the remote again. The message was clear. Do anything, say anything, and I shock him. Morgan shook his head in disgust. The man smiled, the widest one they had seen yet.

"Well now. I do predict this will be a nice, calm walk. Now if you'll just stay still Derek, I'll take off a few of those nasty chains."

Morgan briefly considered making a move on the un-sub while he was undoing his chains. He knew it wouldn't end well though. He had not eaten or got any proper sleep in a long while, and his limbs had been in the same place for far too long. He was in no physical condition to take on the athletic man, especially when his friend was in the balance. He was unable to hold back a moan as the blood came rushing back into his hands and feet. _Why the HELL did it hurt so much more? _The man yanked him to his feet unceremoniously, and Morgan took the opportunity to fall right back down like a sack of potatoes. He hadn't used his legs in too long, they couldn't hold his weight. The man didn't spare him another glance as he slowly stood up once more, staggering like a drunkard. He accounted it to his well toned muscles that he was even able to do this. He tested the boundaries of his new bonds. His hands were handcuffed in front of him, and attached to a chain which prevented him from lifting them above his chest. The chain was attached to the short length which connected his feet. They were similar to those used for prison transport in maximum security facilities, but with a bit more range of movement, thank god.

Morgan stopped thanking when he heard a dull slapping noise as the un-sub attempted to raise Reid from his stupor. He felt a white hot flash of anger and he saw red. _Oh, if I had full range of motion..._ It took a few minutes, but soon Reid had handcuffs around his skinny wrists and a chain connecting his ankles. Morgan noted that his own chain was much shorter, and that Reid didn't have a chain connecting the two. _He clearly regards me as much more of a threat. He's underestimating Reid. _Then again, Reid didn't look like much of a threat as it was. His head was hung in a pathetic fashion, and his frame was stooped. Morgan gritted his teeth. He was not going to let the bastard hurt him anymore.

He only hoped it would be possible.

The un-sub ignored his glares, knowing he had him by the balls. He made a motion for Morgan to go first, a grotesque parody of courtesy, and pushed Reid after him. He directed them down a ling metal hallway, marked with a couple doors like the one they had come from. With their huge bolts and metal doors, they closely resembled bank vaults. They turned a corner, and were directed to stop. With a quick smile the man blocked their view of the door they entered and fiddled with the locks and bolts for a minute. He then pushed the door open and motioned for them to enter. Morgan gave him one last scathing look before slowly walking in.

The room as about the same size as the previous. The tiles on the floor, however, were all black, and the walls were painted bright blue. The was silver, and it was entirely covered in round lights set into the ceiling. He heard the door shut with a devastatingly final thunk, and as he was turning to confront the un-sub, he felt someone grab him from behind. He tried to struggle, but he was still weak and was soon fastened to a loop in the wall he hadn't noticed. The un-sub then grabbed Reid, who had not had the opportunity to get close enough to the two flailing men to help, and attached his hand cuffs to a chain hanging from the ceiling. Which Morgan had missed as well. What was happening to him? He cursed himself for not noticing these possibly crucial details. It was, after all, to see the things others didn't remark upon. He looked up to see the un-sub blow them a kiss and leave the room. _Bastard. _

He immediately turned his attention to Reid, who wasn't looking so good.

"Pretty Boy? Are you alright?" He cursed himself internally. _Of course he's not alright, you moron. _"I mean, are you seriously injured?" _Damn, now I seem like I'm disregarding his other injuries as not serious… Why can't I get this right? _Reid slowly raised his head and looked up at him, smiling as best he could.

"I'm fine. I was surprised by the shock collar, there was no evidence of this method being used in the case files… It does make sense though, he clearly doesn't regard me as as much of a threat as you. He needed a way to control you, and, well, here I am." He paused for a moment. "He probably used this method on many of the other victims. It's how he would control the more physical, or dominant ones. It is strange though…" He trailed off, brow furrowed.

"What's strange? And stop trying to distract me, how badly are you hurt? I saw those winces." Reid looked a bit like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"I think I may have a broken rib from earlier. It hurts when I breathe too deeply. But it's nothing I can't deal with. And I find it strange that a highly organized, intelligent and methodical offender such as this one has to be, and all evidence points at him being, clearly underestimates intelligence in comparison to physical prowess. Most offenders of this type regard themselves as above, or higher beings than normal people, and often see the more physically capable as stupid, and not capable of even coming close to them in terms of a threat. Despite this, he has focused on you more than me, and appears to be an alpha male. It simply doesn't make sense…"

Morgan frowned. He could see the logic, but didn't see how this speculation was getting them anywhere. At least that meant that if the un-sub was more focused on him, he could hopefully protect Reid more.

His train of thought was broken by the unmistakble sound of their captor returning. As the near familliar chunk of bolts echoed ever so slightly in the room, he found himself praying.

* * *

Reid's thoughts were whirring around his head. He kept noticing these things, and none of it made sense, but he could see that it was in front of him, and it was just there, and he could almost see it… and then it would float away and he would be left with fragments and smoky pieces that disappeared as soon as the tendrils of his thoughts touched them. It was almost as painful as the shock had been. He felt an urge to tug on the collar, and to tight around his neck, he had a feeling it was going to bruise. The un-sub hadn't exactly been gentle when he put it on.

He was interrupted by the man returning to the room. He stiffened as he faced him, noticing the ominous black duffle bag by his side. The clinking noises betrayed the metal within. He stiffened as the man's grin grew. They both watched as he reached inside it, and came out grasping a wicked looking knife, which he began twirling on his finger. Neither could bring themselves to break the tension in the air. It felt like on word would shatter the only remaining semblance of peace, and unleash whatever hell was waiting for them. The seconds dragged on like hours, as those black eyes stared into them, flicking back and forth between the two of them. The Cheshire cat smile- if it could be called that- widened by a few centimeters, until the un-sub, in soft tones, shattered the glass air, and shattering the moment that had ensnared them.

"It's time to have a little fun, my friends."

* * *

**Longest chapter yet! I hope that was any good, it took me a lot more time to write than usual. BTW, I find the best song to listen to while writing is Creeper by Islands. Gives me lotsalotsa inspiration ;D. **

**So many questions to be answered. Will Morgan and Reid be okay? Will I die from homework overdose and lack of sleep before this story ends? Will the review button go through a long overdue psychotic break and go on a murderous rampage? **

**There is one outcome you can influence. And if you don't want to see dead bodies piled up along the streets spelling out: ALL I WANTED WAS TO BE PRESSED, I would just write a few sentences. (Seriously. I know I'm one to talk about mental issues, but that button is way messed up). **


	6. Chapter 6

**He-ey! Back for chapter six. I'm sorry I haven't updated in so long, but my computer got a bitch of a virus. The MS Removal one. It was hell on earth trying to get it off the computer- between you and me, it was probably from one of my dodgy anime sites, so it's kinda my own fault. That doesn't change the fact that I want to chase down whatever fellow basement dweller created this and beat the shit out of them with my ninja Tai kwon do. **

**I can't believe how long this is already... I hope you guys don't mind, 'cause I have a feeling it's gonna get a HELL of a lot longer. *so sayeth me, the one whose English essays are never within the 'recommended length'*. This chapter, we see some more of the team, though not too much 'cause they're kinda boring in comparison to Morgan and Reid. **

**Oh, and imma write some from JJ's point of view, but she's never really interested me as a character, so you guys are gonna have to tell me how I do with her. **

**WARNING: psychological and physical torture, swearing, and totally badass un-subs. You've been warned, bitchez. **

**DISCLAIMER: don't own criminal minds. I think you figured it out by now, unless you're totally stupid, but then again... you haven't seen some of the kids at my school... **

* * *

Prentiss hung up her phone in frustration for what seemed like the thousandth time that hour. _If only I could find one person, just one person, who could shed light on their disappearance. _Things weren't looking good. The hotel clerk that had been on duty couldn't tell her anything past when Morgan had called about his bags, which was probably why he left his room so early, but no one had seen the van leave, or knew what had happened to Reid. On top of that, the Out of Order sign she remembered seeing was totally unaccounted for. The elevator had been totally functional, and she was the only one so far who had remarked on it. This was despite the fact that both Rossi and Hotch had had rooms on the upper floors, and had used the elevator just before she had, and not seen it. She had been tying her shoe, and she knew Reid had been totally out of it, so he had probably been behind her. Therefore, it would make sense that the un-sub had used the sign, maybe to lure Reid into the stair well where he would be vulnerable. But she was the only one who had seen it, and she wasn't sure she had. Not exactly resounding proof of foul play.

It was already well past seven o'clock in the evening, and the day had not gone well. The team was clearly worried, and they had good reason. Then had come her talk with Bloom. _Now that WAS just the cherry on top, wasn't it? _Prentiss was quite bitter about that particular turn of events. She thought back on it, trying once again to figure out whose side the sharp-witted man was on.

-flash back-

Prentiss approached Bloom in the coffee room. He appeared lost in thought, and there was a faint line creasing his brow in the center of his forehead. For a moment his purple scarf sent a billion memories of Reid through her head. _No. _She had told herself firmly. _You're thinking like he's already dead. And besides, now is the time to focus. Not get distracted. Where's your head, Emily? Get a freaking grip! _She approached the stout man casually, looking for all the world like another harried co-worker. This effect was, of course, intentional. She knew instinctually from her days at Interpol that this would be a hard nut to crack. He was just a little TOO calm and helpful for her liking. To her surprise, she didn't have to make the first move.

"Thank god for coffee, right?" Bloom had turned around, and had also turned on his surprisingly high watt smile. "Agent... Prentiss? Right?" She returned the grin with a small smile.

"Yeah, I'm impressed you remembered. Believe me, we live off this stuff. I don't think I could live without it." Emily was a bit hesitant, this seemed too good to be true. Maybe he was just a intelligent, charming, trusting young man...

"I believe it. I must have seen the young Dr. Reid down here at least twenty times yesterday. We had a few very interesting conversations. I was actually hoping that to catch him again today, but no such luck." Bloom's smile was totally innocent, and he seemed for all the world like a disappointed schoolboy. Too bad it took more than a few dimples to fool Emily Prentiss- or any BAU agent, for that matter.

_Caught you. I know what you want... shouldn't have given it away this soon in the game. _He clearly wanted to know the same thing as the rest of the police force- where the other two agents were. Now that Emily knew his motivation, she could hopefully figure out where he stood with just a little bit of manipulation. The trick would be not actually letting him clue into the fact that her co-workers were MIA, so to speak.

Without lying. No use ruffling feathers, since he would no doubt be told of their predicament soon enough.

"Mmm. You probably won't see him again today. What did you guys discuss? I know he's always looking for intelligent people to talk with." _Just gotta make him feel safer, warm him up a bit. The subtle flattery won't hurt either. _Her smile was easy and open as she blew on her coffee and leaned against the counter.

"Oh, just this and that. Actually, we were mostly focusing on some of the new, more controversial studies about antisocial personality disorder. You know, nature versus nurture, ect. To be honest, he lost me for a lot of it. It's very interesting work your team does." The last point was said after a pause, bringing the subject back to Prentiss' colleagues, exactly where he wanted it to be. Prentiss gave him a genuine chuckle at the comment on Reid losing him. It happened to everyone, but Bloom was clearly not used to it.

"Yeah, it certainly keeps things fresh." She took a sip of the bitter coffee, frowning slightly. It certainly wasn't high quality. Reid must have been desperate. She just needed to keep this conversation casual, but interesting enough to keep Bloom. _Easy does it, Prentiss. Hotch is relying on you. _Bloom flashed her a searching look, before replacing it with his now familiar charming smile.

"I just wanted to make sure he's okay. This is the most serious case I've ever worked on- though I suppose it's not even close for you profilers- and it's wearing at my nerves. I knew both the officers taken and it has an effect, you know? Out of sheer curiosity, do you know where he is?" His smile was soothing and passive, with a healthy dose of worry. Prentiss hadn't thought he'd come out and ask it, she wouldn't have thought him the type to directly confront the issue. _Maybe he figured I wasn't going to give him anything? Or maybe he's just a decent fellow and I'm getting even more paranoid as I get older. _This would be so much easier if she could just slip in one tiny little lie...

"Don't worry, I get really paranoid on the harder cases, and between you and me, this is one of the hardest I've seen. Don't worry about Reid; he can handle himself surprisingly well." She gave a chuckle of laughter at the last sentence. However, though Bloom mimicked her action, something slightly predatory had alighted behind his smile.

"You didn't answer my question. So you don't know where he is?" The predatory glean had become distinctly more pronounced. Emily paused for a moment in slight shock and began to splutter ever so slightly.

"Well, I don't exactly, but-"

"Ah, my suspicions are confirmed. It was nice talking, agent." He flashed her an ever so slightly evil smile as he turned on his heel and left the room, coffee abandoned on the counter. Prentiss stood, frozen by how unbelievably fast that conversation had gone down the drain. _What the hell was that and since when did police officers outwit me in manipulation games? _

_-_flash back-

* * *

Morgan felt his blood run cold as the un-sub approached him. The man's swagger proved he knew he was in control of the situation, though honestly, it was the gleaming knife blade that was occupying all of his attention. It danced in the light as the man's smile grew wider. Now, Morgan wasn't exactly unfamiliar with knives, but somehow he didn't feel as if he'd ever scrutinized one quite as closely as he was now. He would always have its blade carved into his memory, and would never forget its shape or size. They were imprinted in his mind, no matter how hard he buried them, they would come out when ever his mind was weakened. He tried to shake himself free, but he kept falling back into that trancelike state which was a product of too little sleep, far too little food or water, far too much adrenaline, and simple, uncontrollable, panic. It was like his mind and body were just telling him to give up, to shut down, to let fate run its course, to stop pushing, stop trying... It would be so easy just to give into it.

Too bad Morgan wasn't a quitter.

Hell if he was giving in at the first sign of coming pain. He was an agent of the FUCKING FBI and he needed to teach this son of a bitch some respect. He was not going to give in to him just cause of a fucking knife! Was he crazy? He could take anything this asshole was going to throw at him, and that was not going to change. As if that wasn't enough, he had Reid to protect, and no matter how inept he'd been at it so far, that was going to change. This bastard hadn't encountered anything like him yet, and he was going to ensure Mr. Derek Morgan was the only thing the un-sub would be capable of worrying about for the rest of his god-forsaken life. He looked up at the man with eyes full of hate and pure defiance, and spat out his next words, as if to physically harm the man.

"Bring it, bitch. I'm not just some fucking piece of your fucking game, and I am TIRED of this bullshit." Morgan knew it was stupid, but still the words came out. Still he heard Reid's intake of breath and a despairingly whispered 'No, Morgan! No!' Still he saw the un-sub open his lips a crack, as if to say something. Still he saw the man's face remain totally calm as he glided closer. Still the seconds slowed and stopped, as he got closer...

_1... _The un-sub's knife arm began to rise... _2..._ The crack in his face became a smile... _3..._ He was moving faster now... _4..._ He was closing in... _5_... The smile became a maniacal grin... _6_... He closed in, knife high in the air... _7... _Time sped up again as the madness erupted from the un-sub's eyes...

The silver blade came sweeping down; it seemed at the speed of light. A silver blur, bringing all the madness slashing down with it.

* * *

J.J. sighed as she shut the door to the room behind her. Once she'd glanced around the room to ensure she really was alone, for what seemed the first time in years, her form visibly deflated. Her ruler straight back loosened and hunched, her arms relaxed from the professional 'file-carrying position' she had held them in as she tossed the files on the table before her. The gleam left her eye, her helpful, yet stony and very no-nonsense eyes faded, and the bone-aching tiredness she'd been holding in bloomed across her face. As Jennifer sank into one of the chairs, all her perfect posture and put together appearance faded away.

The liaison gave the digital letters that were so all too well organized on the face of her hotel room's alarm clock an evil glare. _It can't be 12:53 already…_It was though, of course. _Damn those evil red letters. Why do they always have to be so right? Everything's so simple for them… Why can't it be that easy for me to be perfect? Why… why... why…? _Why was she talking to the numbers on her alarm clock? She shook her head. She really was tired. Unceremoniously tugging off her heels and tossing them to the other side of the room, J.J. marched towards the washroom.

She fished the errant strings of wet blond hair from her face as she looked up from the dousing she'd given it. With her hair all wet, and her carefully applied mascara running, she looked a little like the thing from the lagoon. The thought made her smile, just a small one, but one all the same. That was good, she supposed. This case was really getting to her. It had been hard before, trying to keep as totally professional face on while dealing with the hungry jaws of the press, the police officers who fancied themselves manipulative, always fishing for info… The crying families, the stressed out team. All the BAU's cases were hard, but when things became personal, you were reminded of just how much harder every case could be without the support of the authorities. It had been bad enough when the two officers were the closest victims to the case. The news that Prentiss had brought them had nearly tipped J.J.'s well-worn façade to the cold, hard, unforgiving ground.

J.J. knew that her overtired, overstressed mind was going off the deep end, and that she needed to sleep. She pushed her thoughts to more practical matters over and over again, until they could almost stay there. She knew that it was a product of her over-active brain of late that her thoughts could not be pulled from the dangerous subjects she easily circum navigated on other cases. Though she was consciously aware of that, as soon as her head hit the unfamiliar pillow, she delved into the dark areas of her brain she usually worked so hard to avoid. It wasn't soon till JJ was back at the point in time when vague worries were, in her mind, cemented.

-flashback-

J.J. was a little surprised when Hotch had called them into a private 'urgent' meeting. At first she thought that they were going to discuss the politics of the case workers, and whether or not to consider the officers as suspects. Then she considered that it might just be a brainstorming session for the severely lacking profile. After that, she supposed someone had made a breakthrough. That would explain why it was so urgent. It was only then that she started wondering where Reid and Morgan were. She frowned as the first prickling tendrils of worry clawed at her stomach. Her pace increased ever so slightly as she made her way toward their meeting room.

When J.J. entered, Rossi, Hotch and Prentiss were already there. She glanced around as she shut the door. No sign of Reid and Morgan. Roses of panic blossomed from the thorny vines that had taken root in her stomach. Hotch motioned for her to sit down, face as stern and hard to read as always.

"So, we're all here." He looked stressed, and his tone conveyed a sort of tired fear even he couldn't hide. J.J. was on the verge of saying fuck professionalism and freaking out completely. What was going on?

"No, we're not. Where are Reid and Morgan?" She looked to her co-workers. Rossi looked just the way she felt, very confused and a little scared. Prentiss and Hotch had identical expressions, both clearly knew something but were concealing what it was with admirable poker faces. Or, at least, almost concealing it. Something had happened. She could feel it. Hotch let out a little sigh and stood up.

"That's why we're here. As we all know, Reid and Morgan didn't show up to our morning rendezvous. Prentiss, after staying to check up on them, discovered that Morgan had been in his room briefly, but his bags were missing. Reid's room was untouched, but his bags WERE there. The BAU van is also gone."J.J. gasped, and covered her mouth with her hands. Shutters slammed down on Rossi's expression, as he clearly tried to hide his fear. _Compartmentalizing, just like Prentiss and Hotch…_ Prentiss continued where Hotch had left off.

"We all also know that this sort of thing is most defiantly not like Reid or Morgan. We suspect something might have happened to them, though we don't want to jump to conclusions there is a high possibility this has to do with the case. Unfortunately, we can't have the police losing faith in us, and the absolute last thing we need to do right now is incite panic." She paused, to let the wisdom of her words sink in before continuing. "Therefore, we think we should wait, and try to find more evidence before we assume the worst." Rossi nodded slowly, and J.J. couldn't help but agree with the logic. Still…

"But what if they WERE taken?" She tried not to seem hysterical, and quickly pushed down her emotions, keeping her countenance calm. "Would it not be wiser to at least let someone know they may have been taken? We could form a crime scene, investigate properly, let the police do their job. The un-sub may have left some evidence. It seems really unlikely they would leave willingly without telling us. And every moment we wait, they may be suffering. You've seen those crime scene photos. And after Henkel… I'm not sure I can deal with that again. Let alone Reid…" Hotch and Prentiss averted their eyes, while Rossi looked a little confused.

"Henkel? What are you talking about? Can't deal with what again?" They all glanced at each other. Rossi had come after that whole debacle, and though he must have heard that something happened, by some silent accord no one had spoken to him of Reid's abduction. It seemed to personal, not for them to speak of. It was Hotch who eventually responded.

"A few years ago, before you came, Reid was kidnapped by an un-sub we were hunting when he rushed into a situation before we could get there and him and J.J. were separated. We were sent video feed of the un-sub torturing him. Luckily, he managed to let us know where he was being held in time, and he escaped with no major injuries. We got there as fast as we could, but not quite fast enough and in the end it was Reid who shot him." He paused. They all knew the lasting effects the abduction had had on their youngest agent, even the ones they didn't talk about. Couldn't talk about. "This will not be a repeat of that. Remember, we still know nothing but that they're missing. We can't risk panic in this situation. Besides, if it was the un-sub who took them, it's unlikely that he left any evidence. If it was the un-sub, it's likely the best thing we can do for Reid and Morgan is to work the profile, no matter how hard we wish we could pull out all the cavalry, this is the most logical option. Besides, Prentiss will spend the rest of the day looking into this. In the mean time, we need to continue working harder than ever."

They all nodded, some more willingly than others. Though she tried to focus, J.J. spent the rest of the meeting, and then the day, unable to wrench her co-workers from her mind.

_What could be happening to them? _

-flashback-

* * *

Morgan barely even registered the first slash, it came too fast. It wasn't until the second that the white hot band of pain registered. By the third, it had hit him like a sledgehammer. By the forth he was gritting his teeth as he felt the blood slick his chest, and the cold air hit his chest through the slashes in his shirt. By the fifth he had let out a noise, a grunt forced from between teeth. By the sixth, and last, he had let out a strangled yelp that somehow shocked the un-sub from his blood lust. The knife raised a seventh time, but it never came down. The man turned towards the door, and they saw him take a long, slow breath. He proceeded to take six more cleansing, calming breaths.

When he turned back to them, his calm smile had returned, and he seemed to have totally forgotten the rage that had inhabited him a second ago. It was only their training that made them recognize the faint tremor in his hands and the psychotic glint in his eyes for what they were. When he spoke it was as if he was speaking of a broken vase or plate.

"You shouldn't be so rude, Derek. Now do you see what you've made me do?" He shook his head, as if in disappointment. "I hope you've learnt your lesson. Still, we must continue with today's game nether the less. You should still be capable." His teeth flashed, and he looked extremely dangerous for a second.

Morgan felt the pain of the cuts in his chest, felt the blood dripping, felt the discomfort as his shirt stuck to the injuries when he breathed. They weren't deep enough to do any real damage, his well muscled torso had ensured that. He knew that no matter how much he thought his current state sucked, he should be much more worried about what was coming.

* * *

**Ah, Morgan's manlyess is going to get him killed one of these days... **

**Not sure how I feel about this chapter... it was really hard to write. Next chapter will be better, and come faster. Promise. Stuff will finally start happenning, and we're going to learn a lot more about our mystery un-sub. YAY! **

**As always, the review button is up to evil things, and I think it's started stalking me... I keep recieving these wierd phone calls with threats. I think it knows where I live. For my sake, please just push it. Tell me if you like what you see, what I need to do better on... if I just totally suck and need to die in a hole and never write again... whatever. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Salutations! As promised, chapter seven. Featuring: more un-sub, revelations, guilt, pain and one sick puppy! This one's more about Reid and Morgan, so YAY. **

**And... heh heh heh heh heh... I don't really like Reid's new haircut, but I forgot to mention it before... could all you peeps just pretend it's still long? Just for me? This is FANfiction, afterall...**

**WARNING: torture, ect, sick evil un-subs, ect, the usual, ect **

**DISCLAIMER: things I don't own: **

**1) A cat that shoots laser beams from its eyes (unfortunately for me)**

**2) A sinister castle located on a mountain in Transylvania (unfortunately for me)**

**3) Criminal Minds (unfortunately for me) **

**4) A way of controlling my evil genius (unfortunately for the world) **

* * *

Reid felt as if he had lost he tenuous grip on reality as the un-sub stood in the center of the room, streaks of red spattering him almost artistically. The man didn't appear to even register what had happened, made no move to wipe away the crimson on his right cheek that glittered in the light at his every subtle movement. It added to his threatening demeanour exponentially- something he hadn't considered to even be possible. When the man had turned towards his friend all his senses had called for him to do something, anything to stop what was coming. But he had remained frozen. He should have done something, attracted the man's attention, anything. But he had been just as useless as always. He should have known Morgan's alpha male sense would overpower his profiler side... should have done something to prevent what came next.

But, as usual, Reid had stayed at the side, unconsciously crying out when the man had slashed mercilessly at his best friend. He was stunned by it all... there was a lack of realism about the situation. Something about seeing the one and only Derek Morgan weak, chained up, and soaked in his own blood was just so totally, inconceivably WRONG. He had seen his friend weak before, hell, he'd even seen Morgan cry. But seeing him at the mercy of one of the very menaces he dedicated himself to stopping felt different. He was struck by the strangest of urges to protect him. _Since when had MORGAN needed protecting? I'm going insane... Plus, I'm to useless to help myself, let alone him. _

All this internal turmoil, combined with his lack of sleep and the trauma of the past- _how long had it been?- _was causing him to lose focus easily. He was becoming distracted and detached over the smallest details. However, through it all, he could feel his brain ticking away, the profiler inside him calmly taking notes for further observation. He could feel the information, no matter how useless, being filed away for later use. No matter the situation, his mind really never let him rest. He briefly pondered the dilemma it presented for a second. The un-sub was NOT displaying nearly enough control to be capable of all the detailed schemes, yet his pathology was clearly highlighted in many of the crime scenes... None of it made sense... He was missing a piece. He could feel it just beyond his grasp, stopped by the physical barriers impairing his logic and good sense. Even he had trouble thinking clearly though these distractions. Suddenly he was drawn back into his body as he felt Morgan's eyes on him and heard the un-sub's words. Morgan didn't look quite as bad as he'd been worried about, the cuts, while vicious, seemed fairly shallow. The older man was clearly trying to reassure him with his eyes, but despite his best efforts, the un-sub's words, his indifferent tone, the blood spatters, it all sent shivers down his spine and suddenly he had no trouble focusing at all.

"Oh, such a pity. I'm not sure if dear Derek is quite up for our little game, and he's SUCH a crucial part... What have you made me done?" He tutted, then, in a tone as if he was talking to a naughty five year old, continued. "Well, I suppose there's nothing for it. We've got to get you cleaned up at least a bit before we may proceed with the entertainment. Come, Miranda!" He clapped his hands, as Reid and Morgan glanced at each other in shock. The door slowly opened, and the ghost of a girl slipped through the opening, hardly making a sound. Her eyes remained downcast as she approached Morgan, fishing bandages out of her dress. The un-sub gave a quick scowl as she got close to him.

"Now, now, hurry up about it. I don't want you darlings having any secret talks, so I will stay here." He gave a charming smile, and leaned against the wall. Then it happened. The girl's eyes flashed up to meet his own for a second. It was only a second, but it was enough to send his mind reeling. The un-sub was saying something, and Morgan was trying to send him non-verbal messages as the girl wrapped the clean write strips around his torso, but Reid tuned them out mindlessly. _No... It couldn't be. It's so rare. And the crimes... but it would explain so much. _What he had seen in her eyes had not belonged to a slave working with a serial killer. It, for a mere fraction of a second, had been... _calculating. _It was so rare, so undocumented, so phenomenal, it couldn't be what he was jumping to. On the other hand, it would explain so much. And, after all, as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle so famously quoted, 'When you have eliminated the impossible, that which remains, however improbable, must be the truth.' Besides, why had she been outside this whole time? The attack on Morgan had not been planned, he knew that much. So either she had been outside to watch the show, so to speak, or- Reid felt a dry lump in the back of his throat as the other possibility came to mind- or because the un-sub's plans already included her being needed. Plans he was about to go ahead with. Strange, no matter how hard he tried to swallow that lump, it kept coming back up.

* * *

Greg did not like seeing his one, his only, his most precious, with HER head bowed. Did NOT like seeing HER giving so much attention to the agent's wounds. Did not like HER slave-like dress and demeanour. Did not like seeing HER vibrant, powerful, aura dimmed. Did not like the 'understanding', sympathetic look in 'Derek's' eyes. He leaned against the wall, wanting, wishing, needing to see his queen, his ruler, returned to her pedestal. It was the only place she belonged, and he hated seeing any weakness from her. No matter that it was faked, no matter how many lectures on strategy she had given him, no matter that it was what she wanted... it amounted to nothing in his eyes. This was not where she should be, showing her throat, even in theatrics, to someone as unworthy as himself. Someone so totally unworthy of even being in her glorious presence.

Let alone the two agents. His thoughts turned sour as he turned his gaze on them, struggling to keep his face blank as she had taught him. The small one, Spencer, was mouthing words and his eyes were unfocused. He bit back a snort of contempt. The weak ones always lost their heads first. Despite this, it was far too early. He had clearly underestimated the insolent young profiler with the clear, manipulative, cocky eyes that made him want to push him to the ground, and teach him his place in every way possible. He shivered in delight at the thought. He hated those so-called intellectuals who thought themselves so much better, so much smarter than everyone else. They thought they were oh-so-good, thought they knew better, that they could convince anyone to do anything- and all the while they were far weaker than the others. _What did they know, anyways? _They werethe ones who had locked him up, they were the ones he hated the most. Greg returned to the present, seeing that the skinny agent's eyes were still staring away from him, at one of the walls. He felt a wave of all consuming, burning anger pouring over him, and red tinged the edges of his vision. _How dare he not register me, his superior? _

He took a few calming breaths. He needed to focus. He felt dizzy with hate for a minute, past feelings all coming roaring back. He looked over at the other agent. 'Derek' wasn't disobeying his order, and had not spoken. A vague sort of satisfaction washed over him, like the calming surf after the crashing waves of the storm. Greg would show him that he was the dominant alpha. Then the man in question raised his head, and looked right into his eyes. And all of a sudden he knew that it was not going to be as easy as he previously thought. Oh, well. He smiled inwardly. He had just the game for the job.

* * *

Morgan was worried. He glanced down and the girl dressing his wounds. She was clearly terrified of the man Morgan suspected was keeping her hostage, and wouldn't meet his eyes. He felt a familiar protective urge come over him. He hated seeing helpless victims, and had become a police officer to protect them. To shield them. That being said, he was having a hard enough time keeping himself safe- let alone this new girl. And Reid, or course. He needed to keep the un-sub's attention on him, and keep the genius safe. He looked over at his friend, who had a familiar look on his face. His lips- slightly chapped, were moving as he stared at the wall. Morgan knew that look. Garcia called it his genius look, the one he got when he was suddenly lost to a world only he could see, he could comprehend. It was those moments when you realised that the geeky, gangling doctor was more than just a random statistic generator or a carbon copy high school nerd. It was then that you saw his true brilliance, caught a glimmer of just how sharp a tool his mind really was.

Right now, though, it really was not the time. He knew how Reid was, and however helpful his intellect was going to be over the course of this... whatever this was... him spacing out was not a good thing with a CONTROLLING un-sub in the room. He looked over at said un-sub, and saw only faint distain behind the dark masks that were his eyes. Morgan met his cool gaze with all the defiance and disgust he could muster. The thing before him was not human, and he would not treat him as such. He felt the movements around his injured chest cease, and looked down to see the poor girl, Miranda he'd said her name was, moving away, having finished. The man looked up, Morgan's blood still on his cheek, and flashed his signature sparkling white grin.

"You may leave, Miranda." He got up, and approached the center of the room as she left quietly, head bowed. Without warning, his smile widened ever so slightly, and he pressed that button on the remote Morgan hadn't realized he was holding. There was a sharp crack, and screams of pain lit the room as the man he considered like a brother twitched and spasmed on his chains. Something warm trickled down his wrists and it occurred to him he was yelling for him to stop. It felt like a millennia before the tension left his body, and it collapsed onto the chains, dangling like a worn out flag after a windstorm. But, for all Morgan knew, it could only have been a few seconds. Just a few seconds... but ones that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

"Reid? Pretty boy? You alright, man?" His voice wavered on the last one. Seeing the pain in his friend's eyes... he received a groan in return, and saw Reid's head stir, though his hair was still in his face and obscured his eyes. Seeing Reid in that state wrenched at his heart. His eyes flew back to the son of a bitch responsible for it.

"What the fuck was that?" He took a moment to bite back on his anger, remembering what had happened last time. He would do Reid no good dead. He bit his lip. "Why did you do that? You said we were going to play a game. Your torturing him is not a game." The man flashed him a look, before slowly walking over to where Reid was hanging loosely from his chains, and grabbed a fistful of his hair. He yanked his head up, forcing him to look directly into those all too calm eyes.

"You're awake now, hmmm? Paying attention? Good, good. Now-"here he turned to Morgan, still smiling "Derek, you know I can do that whenever I wish?" He waited for a response, and when the glaring man gave him a curt nod, continued. "Then I suggest you don't even try to fight me when I free you." He walked over to Morgan and fiddled with the chains attaching him to the wall. Morgan felt the restraints fall from his wrists, and the blood coming rushing back to his hands, creating an unpleasant tingling on top of the pain even the adrenaline couldn't quite cover. The un-sub quickly moved back to the center of the room, and began talking. His words froze the blood in Morgan's veins, and his mouth slowly opened, words attempting to trail out, but not quite reaching coherence.

"I wouldn't move if I were you, Derek. It's time for a fun little game, and if you refuse to comply, then things might turn... shockingly terrible." A cruel smile danced on full lips at his own pun. "Now, we all know that you want to protect our dear little Spencer from any unnecessary pain or humiliation that his own weakness might cause. He's quite helpless right now, you see. I would hate for me to... slip up and do anything regrettable. Now, to prevent me from doing just that, now, I'd like you to do something for me Derek." He hummed slightly in the back of his throat, and cocked his head towards Morgan. Morgan considered his options. He did not want to know what the man wanted him to do. But, it was his responsibility to protect Reid. The choice was never really hard for him.

"Anything." His words echoed the determination he had. He would not fail his friend again. The un-sub gave an electrifying smile.

"Good, good. Then I want you to punch Spencer as hard as you can."

* * *

Reid blinked in shock. For a moment, his mind went blank. Maybe it was the combined effect of the conclusion his rambling thoughts had reached, his recent electrocution, the overtly protective tone to Morgan's startling response, or that the un-sub had just demanded the one thing that Reid had thought his friend wouldn't do.

He, for a moment, could do nothing but gape.

Then his brain resumed regular (for him) function, and he remembered what all profilers knew. Often the un-subs are brilliant natural profilers. Though, looking into the poorly concealed glee of the handsome man's eyes, he doubted this one was. More evidence on the side of his new theory. He quickly secured his thoughts to their current situation. He did not need to be wandering off right now... Not after that jolt of pain, the feeling that his insides were turning inside out... **(a/n I have no idea what electrocution of any severity feels like, so imma just make some shit up.) **He pulled his head up, trying to make his body respond to his commands the way it should. He was just in time to catch Morgan's uncharacteristically unsure response.

"Wh- what?" Confusion and inner torment were evident on his face.

"I said, I want you to punch Spencer as hard as you can. He's quite helpless, it seems within even your capabilities." He gave a mocking smile. When Morgan didn't respond, he pulled a golden knuckleduster out of his pocket. "Punch him or I will."

"Yeah, just calm down man. I'm sure we can-"

"Morgan, just hit me." Reid hated the weakness in his voice, it seemed to quiet. He kept it as calm as possible. He did not want to antagonise the un-sub. He knew that though Morgan would feel guilty, he would much rather be hit by a trusted friend then a sadist who wanted to inflict maximum pain. He just needed Morgan to see it. He looked him straight in the eye. "its fine, just hit me."

CRACK.

He felt a blinding pain in his side, and released a grunt which was really a scream he'd bit down on. The air soared out of his lungs and left him incapacitated. Black spots danced on the edges of his vision, and his body swung from the chains, causing them to bite into his wrists painfully. The un-sub pulled back, removing the traces of malice from his gaze as best he could.

It had NOT been Morgan who hit him.

"Now, Derek, make your decision. Without dear little Spencer's help." He winked at the helpless man, warning him not to speak again. He didn't want this decision to be easy for the larger agent. Anything but. Morgan licked his lips, before Reid saw his eyes tighten and his resolve harden.

THUD. The hit came, and it wasn't as bad as the first. Not by a long shot. Reid could see Morgan had pulled back, softening the punch at the last minute. So could the un-sub.

"Harder." He hissed. Morgan moved to comply. They both knew not doing so immediately would only result in more pain.

THUD. This time, he felt it, He bit his lip to keep from exclaiming, not wanting to let his friend know how much it hurt. Tiny rainbows of polka dots danced in the lights, and his side ached.

"Again, harder."

THUD. Reid could see the pain in his friend's eyes and tried to give a smile to let him know he was okay... to help his forget the sharp exhalation that had been forced from his lungs. The smile didn't work out so well, and it killed Reid to not be able to tell his friend he didn't blame him, that it was alright, he understood.

"Again." He couldn't see the man from this angle, but he could hear the joy that the agent's torment caused him. _If only I wasn't so weak, we wouldn't be in this situation. If only I wasn't so weak... _

THUD. This time, he let out an unintentional gasp. He had tried to stifle it, but it had come out anyways. He hated himself for doing this to Morgan, but at the same time he was a little too focused on the blinding, all-encompassing pain in his side. He couldn't quite bring himself to ignore it, push past it.

"Again."

THUD. He thought he may have let something out, no matter how hard he tried that time. _Oh well. They all know I'm weak as is. _He thought through the flashing lights his pain receptors were giving off. He wouldn't cry out next time though, he resolved.

"Again."

THUD. _Hah. I held it in that time... _

He barely heard the un-sub's voice anymore, and lost count of the punches. He felt himself fading, knew his body was trying to shut down. But NO. He was not going to be THAT weak. He had to try to be strong. He grabbed onto the thought like a dying man. He would not succumb to unconsciousness, no matter how attractive an option it had begun to appear. He was weak, but not that weak. He barely even registered it when the pattern stopped, when he saw- or was it felt? He couldn't figure out anymore- his co-worker falter. His head was spinning, it took him a minute for the man's next words to make sense.

"Not again, man, not again. He's had enough." Was Morgan crying? No, that couldn't be right, he though. He must be losing it. _Morgan doesn't cry. No, that's not right... Morgan wouldn't cry in front of an un-sub though. Especially not this one. I'm seeing things... I must be. _

It was his last thought before darkness took him.

* * *

Morgan was in his own personal hell. The second the thought crossed his mind, he felt guilty. How dare he think about himself after what had happened- no, what he had done to Reid. He was sitting in the dark, in the red cell. He had vague memories of the un-sub leading him here, chaining him to the chair after his friend- not that he felt he should be called a friend again after what had happened- had fainted, presumably from the pain. He hung his head, he didn't have the energy to raise it. The sick son-of-a-bitch who had made him do it had tried to make Morgan hit Reid again, but he hadn't been able to do it. Not while he was passed out. After multiple threats to the younger man's well being, the un-sub had presumably realised that Morgan was barely registering him, so wrapped up in guilt he was, and had taken him back to the original room.

He wondered if Reid would forgive him. Probably. The kid wasn't capable of holding it against him, not that Morgan deserved any leniency. But would he ever truly trust him again? After he had heard the grunts and whimpers of pain the younger agent had so desperately tried to hold back? He doubted it.

What had he done?

* * *

Reid groaned. He felt something cool and wet against his injured side. As his senses resumed function, he realised that he was half sitting, half lying against the wall. He quickly took stock of his position, not yet opening his eyes. His hands were held by a chain above his head still, but the chain was much longer, rendering him capable of his current position. His shirt had been removed, and someone was gently wiping his side with a damp facecloth. He highly doubted it was the man who had taken them.

Hearing no one else in the room, he slowly opened his eyes. His heart rate jumped when he saw the lights dancing off that mop of white-blond hair. She looked up at him, fear in her eyes. But there was something else, too. He thought back to his thoughts, his conclusion. She continued washing, the picture of obedience. It was then that he heard her voice for the first time.

"We're not allowed to talk. You should be more careful around him, you'll get hurt more if you aren't." Her voice was perfectly sculpted to sound timid. She shielded her face with her hair, and looked away from him and back to her work. She had made a mistake. If she was the helpless slave she made herself out to be, he doubted she would have spoken. She wouldn't have attempted anything approaching a personal bond, knowing where all the captives ended up. Maybe. Reid wasn't sure about his theory, his logic, but hell, what did he have to lose? He cleared his throat slightly and spoke in a soft, yet sure tone.

"You don't have to pretend. I know what, who, you are." She stiffened. Receiving no response he could see, as her face was still hidden, he continued. "Your partner doesn't have the resolve, the organisation, or the brains to pull this off. Alone, he couldn't have done it." She was silent, then she turned to look at him.

There was a grin across her face. In a second, her entire demeanour changed. Her slouched shoulders straightened, her nervous twitching disappeared. All of a sudden the young girl was surrounded by a dangerous, controlled aura. She gave off the air of a lioness, lean, lithe and calculating, totally secure in her body no matter the situation. However, this lioness was not the type to let the male tell her what to do. No, she was the leader of her pride.

Reid had been wrong about one thing. There was no chance that she was the submissive partner. Her voice was overflowing with glee as she clasped her hands, looking like a young girl who had just received the world's best toy for her birthday and was quite satisfied with it.

"Oh, I just KNEW you would figure it out! He said you were weak, but, then again, those who lack it always underestimate intelligence. You live up to your reputation, doctor! I am sorry that we're properly introduced like this, I look like a wreak. My name is indeed Miranda, and I-" She paused dramatically, one hand over her heart and face raised ever so slightly. "-am your host. I am the ringleader, the mediator, the _mastermind_, as you say, of this game. I am pleased to make you acquaintance." Everything she did was dramatic, overblown. She was one of those people who were constantly in a spotlight, in center stage of the world. She was also clearly a megalomaniac and a delusional psychopath, and an intelligent one at that. He carefully considered his answer.

"The pleasure is all mine. I am disappointed that I let such time pass before our proper introduction, as you put it. I am Doctor Spencer Reid, Special Agent of the FBI Behavioural Analysis Unit. I would kiss your hand, but at the current moment I am a little indisposed. I find handcuffs put a hamper on good grace." He gave a small, elegant smile. Normally Reid was uncomfortable around people he didn't know, and everyone thought him totally socially awkward. It was on the stage of reality that he found a constant stutter and nervousness blocked out any wit he possessed. Other people's stares made him uneasy, he had never been able to connect with them at first, and he couldn't public speak to save his life. However, his mother had always pounded old-fashioned manners and when he had always been a much better actor than he let on. And, locked in this room, he found conversation and even charm came easy, naturally. This girl, this murdering psychopath, spoke the same language he did.

She responded in a drawl that drew out vowel sounds, complimenting her subtle sarcasm. She spoke with exaggerated hand motions and with wit that hid her comparatively young age. She spoke as a fellow intellectual, as if the two of them were somehow above the world, sharers in some great secret.

"Oh, they do indeed. I would remove them, but I fear you behold some ulterior motive to wanting them removed. However, though they indeed hamper good grace, they place no hold on your tongue, for which I am glad. You simply have NO IDEA how rarely I speak with someone with any sort of conversational skills. Or perhaps you do? It is lonely for those of us who are bestowed the blessing or curse which intelligence can be. I'm sure you're aware of that which I speak of." She gave him a knowing look. And he found he did know, and for that matter, so did she.

"I do indeed. I find it hard, as close as I am with my co-workers, at times to find a fellow soul who comprehends that which I do. Even, at times it the world of intellectuals with whom I often find solace, I find myself alone in crowded rooms. It certainly makes interaction hard."

"Ah, my heart goes out to you. I find myself regretting that we are destined to be at odds by my own devious designs. It is a drawback to my game. I do hope you last longer than the rest. However, though I regret the impossibility of our companionship, I cannot deny an excitement at the prospect of a worthy rival. After all, what becomes one better than antagonist of equal or greater power?"

"I look forward to the challenge, though I must admit my dismay at the inequality of this game. It would appear that all the cards are in your hands, as they say." He paused, wondering if he should say what was on his mind. Reid found himself doing so on a whim. "I must admit, it is rare that I am given the opportunity to speak without restriction to a talented intellectual who is, shall we say, in opposition to my goals as an agent? Especially one as unique as you. I sincerely doubt that you shall be easy to profile." He awaited her response, half-afraid she would react with anger as he had come to expect from the un-subs he studied. But she simply gave him a cheeky smile, and her eyes sparkled mischievously as she replied.

"Oh, I wouldn't allow it to be easy for you, believe me. I wish you the greatest of luck. To your feelings of unfairness, I must say that you have more cards than you think. One especially I worry may supply some trouble yet. Besides, the greatest of games are never fair." She winked at him. "Speaking of which, would you do me the honour of a game of chess? I would love to take advantage of this moment we find ourselves in possession of." Reid found himself nodding in assent.

"I would indeed. I have a premonition you will prove quite adept." He gave a sly smile, hardly registering the pain in his bruised jaw as he did so. He was a little winded by the whole thing, but strangely found himself honestly excited. Most of the un-subs they interviewed were behind closed doors and rarely divulged the information they really wanted. Despite the pain all over his body, he found himself with a wish to rise to her blatant challenge. He forced himself to remember that she was just an un-sub, to be profiled and put away. He forced himself to think about how he shouldn't let himself be pulled into her sick games, how hurt both he and Morgan could get, how much Gideon would disapprove. But, at the back of his mind, one little voice muttered. It said that just because she was an un-sub didn't mean he couldn't remark on her strategic intelligence, couldn't respect her as a fellow intellectual, couldn't relate to her.

_My god. Am I so screwed up that I'm admiring the verbal sparring skills of the psychopath who kidnapped me and my best friend? _

* * *

**Wow. I'm kinda worried about this chapter. I love it, personally, but I'm not sure if you guys will. Your opinion means a lot to me, (I think I nearly cried at my first bad review), so I really hope that you approve of Miranda. Imma play around with her and Reid's relationship. Oh, yeah, and if Morgan seems a little pathetic this chappie, don't worry. He's just in a crappy place right now. I LOVES angst, so tell me if I go a little heavy on it... Don't stress though, Morgan-fans, he will do some serious ass-kicking by the end of this fic. **

**Oh, yeah, and Miranda is a little like me in some ways- a lot of ways- as well. I hope to make her a well-develloped character, so tell me how I do with her! She actually walked into my head while I was listening to _Naughty, Sexy, Bitchy Me _by Lene Alexandre. She's got some serious swagger- in a I-am-a-crazy-psychopath sort of way. **

**PLEASE REVIEW! The review button is sharpenning a knife and I really don't want to find out what it's for!**


	8. Chapter 8

**He-ey! **

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapie! Speaking of which, I may have to change my early decision not to make this slash, as was my original plan. A surprising number of people have asked if this could become about Reid and Morgan falling for each other, and who am I to deny such a request, humble author that I am? ****If I do**** (and I'm not sure yet), it will probably be more pre-slash, with a bit of romance and stuff but no lemons or anything. Tell me what you think? **

**WARNING: psychological and physical torture (yep, definitely more to come), swearing (oh Morgan, you and your potty mouth), and perhaps some future yaoi (homophobes beware! We're coming for you!) **

**DISCLAIMER: don't own shit, a common state of events for me **

* * *

Reid stared at the now familiar board. The black and red marble checks, the intricate gothic designs on the edges, the decorative pieces. He was totally occupied with this game. This game that had eluded him. This was for the win. This one would decide it. He could not let her tie up the score. He looked up at her eyes, masked perfectly to give nothing away. _What are you thinking? _He looked back down, chewed his lip and made his move. Then it came. The only thing he hadn't noticed. The option she had perfectly engineered. The trap she had masterfully set. The second his move passed his lips, he saw it. So, when her perfectly concealed grin bobbed up to the surface of her previously impassive face and the twinkle leapt to her eyes, he was not surprised. All he could do was berate himself as those damned words spilt from her pale lips.

"Check mate."

A rueful smile twitched the corners of his lips.

"Yes, I admit defeat. You have me. Once again, the score is tied. I do believe we have won four each?" It was a simple courtesy, and they both knew it. For they both knew that neither would forget how any of the games had turned out. Reid was chained to the wall still, and Miranda was kneeling in front of him. Between them was an ornate chess board, and two piles of pieces. Reid was playing by calling out where he wished whatever piece he specified to go, and she would move it for him. They were in the midst of a fierce tournament, each using the games as data about the other, and trying to let as little as possible away about themselves. "Shall we have a tie breaker?"

She smiled her trademark dangerous smile."But of course. However, though I am enjoying this thoroughly, this does seem like the opportune moment to make this a little more fun. What do you say we raise the stakes a little?"

Reid was on his guard immediately. It would not be wise to forget who he was dealing with here. He cocked one elegant eyebrow. "What do you suggest?" She folded her hands behind her back, and gave him a mock-innocent look.

"Well, I couldn't help but notice that you and your... friend... are in need of a little sustenance. So, I propose, that if you win this game, such sustenance shall be provided, courtesy of yours truly."

"And if I win, and you take victory?"

"Then you will permit me to ensure you don't forget our encounter. I have but a simple wish to leave you with a little memento you shall carry until the day death frees you. Nothing to serious, of course, just something to mark my intrusion into your life." Reid thought for a minute. He had no illusions about what she asked. If he lost, she was going to torture him. However, they had not eaten in... far too long. They were losing strength fast, and they were going to need all the help they could get if they wanted to survive this. Besides, it was time he did something useful. It was his fault that Morgan was stuck here with him, so he had to take any opportunity he could to lessen the load on his co-worker. Plus, he had faith in his chess-playing abilities.

"Very well, I accept your wager. I suppose it's impossible for us to shake on it, but I trust you will keep your end of the bargain?"

"Of course."

"Then let the game begin."

This game held a flavour of danger in the air that the others had not. This game, the moves came faster, the traps were ruthless, and the mental play was brutal. The two halted all attempts at polite conversation, eyes reading each other and mouths only moving to distract or mislead the opposition with cutting remarks. The pace was quick, and soon the moves were coming almost faster than Reid could force them out of his mouth. Before long, they were down to the wire. Only a few pieces graced the board, until the conclusion came. It came with the sacrifice of the last pawn to take down the last bishop. It came, and when it did, there were only two objects on the smooth chequered surface.

The two kings.

Slowly looking up to meet her eyes, mental and physical exhaustion crashed down on Reid. The adrenaline of their encounter, the pain of Morgan's punches and the sheer intellectual challenge had kept his eyes open, had kept him up and fighting. And now it was over. It was a tie. He WAS useless. He couldn't even win a chess game. At the last second, Miranda had made the sacrifice that had crushed his hopes of finally winning at something. And now all he had was the consolation that she hadn't technically won. However, in his eyes, she had still taken him down, conquered him. He met her gaze, feeling defeated. However, instead of seeing a winner's smile on her face, her eyes looked frustrated, as if she were upset with herself. As soon as he saw it, her shutters came crashing down and the look disappeared. It was enough though. Enough for Reid to pull himself together, put his mask back on, straighten slightly, pull himself forcefully back into the game and break the silence.

"So, what happens in this case? We failed to predict this eventuality." He saw the calculations in her eyes, and a flash of something else... desire? _Perhaps..._

"Well, I suppose traditionally no one winning would result in all the bets being off..." she paused for a few seconds "I, however, don't particularly like that turn of events. I prefer to see it as the both of us winning... so we shall both receive our rewards. Are you in agreement?" Reid nodded after a few seconds. _I can deal with the pain if it helps Morgan and I. I can do this._ "Good. I assume you have no problems with my going first. I shall return in a few minutes."

With that, Miranda daintily picked up the heavy-looking board, swept the pieces into a velvet bag and gracefully skipped out of the cell, leaving the door cracked open as if to taunt Reid with the knowledge that he couldn't escape. The chains cut into his wrists as he became dizzy with anticipation. His mind was on fire, trying desperately to process all the new data and manage it all in a way he could comprehend and use. It had too much to deal with, yet even in it's over tired state it was trying to handle it, understand it. _Why can't I just shut down and forget everything? _Reid wondered. _Why can't I just have peace? _His dismal thoughts were interrupted by the clanking of the door re-opening. Miranda was there, holding a black leather satchel and wearing a short black and red striped dress with fishnet leggings. Her eyes had rings of black eyeliner, emphasizing how pale she was. Her hair was still wild, but now it looked purposefully so. She wasn't wearing any shoes, and the leggings ended around her narrow ankles, leaving her feet bare. Her ankles were not bare though. She had a great many heavy looking silver and black bangles around them. He noted her choker and the black lace gloves that covered her arms up to her biceps.

Wow. No wonder she'd taken her time. She gave him a smile, and did a twirl.

"You like? It's simply _wonderful _to get back in my regular clothes; you have GOT to believe me darling. It makes a soul feel human again." The ankle-decorations chimed as she slowly approached him.

"You look... magnificent." _A little flattery never hurts, especially to the 'bird-of-paradise' type... _She giggled, and sat down in front of him, the leather bag making ominous sounds as she placed it on the ground.

"Oh, thank you, Spencer. However, I would appreciate it if you didn't talk for this. I need to concentrate, and I would just _hate _it if I had to gag those pretty lips of yours." She winked. He was not fooled. What she really meant was, 'the only thing I want to hear from you is screaming.' That was the only reason she didn't want to gag him, and he knew it.

He nodded.

She started humming as she slowly unbuttoned his shirt, leaving his narrow chest exposed. His pale skin glinted slightly under the harsh light as Miranda considered her canvas. They both saw his breathing hasten to double its previous pace as she reached into her bag and removed a scalpel and a soldering iron. _She's not planning on doing that to me... She can't be! _But his ever efficient mind reminded him of the case files. He felt faint, and his heart beat an unsteady, but extremely fast pattern against his chest. He bit back as scream as she made the first swooping, slow cut across his chest, on his left side- right over his heart. He didn't manage to hold back the next cry though, or the next, or the next... or the one after that.

His back arched, and all he could see was her pale eyes, alight with feral glee as she took her time, slowly forming an intricate design over his madly thumping heart. Then all he could see was red, and he heard himself stop screaming. It took to much energy. He didn't think it could get any worse. Not until she raised that faintly smoking metal rod, and stared into his eyes as she pressed it into his flesh, into the fresh knife wounds over his heart. He heard her muttering wildly about sealing cuts to prevent blood loss and infection, but he could focus on what he was hearing, only on what he was feeling... and what he smelt. The nauseating scent of his own burnt flesh.

It was strange, it was right at that moment when he didn't think he could take anymore that he found it. That place inside of himself, where everything was peaceful. The pain was still there, he still felt and heard everything, but... at the same time, all he saw was numbers. All Reid knew was broken down into something he could calculate. The pain, the misery, it was all just cold, hard data. He was in his bubble of facts, of formulae where everything could be fixed, understood, with just the right trick. He knew this place. It was where he had hidden on his mother's worst days, when the kids had been their meanest, when there was no one there to help him. It had been his inner sanctum, where he never had to worry about protecting his emotions because they were all just numbers. Numbers he could deal with.

Then the last blinding streak of lightning, the last blade of white-hot pain, pressed into him. He was wrenched back to all his torment, all the pain he had suffered. He collapsed back, hanging by his wrists, completely spent. Miranda was breathing heavily, kneeling over his waist, hands soaked in blood. His blood. He barely registered it as she left, as she bandaged his chest, as she cut off his shirt, tutting at the ragged, stained mess it had become, and left. He hardly noticed it as the man from before returned and picked him up. His last thought before oblivion took him was that he hoped Miranda held up her side of the bargain. _Oh, she better. Or Morgan's going to be FURIOUS at me. _

* * *

Derek Morgan had passed the state of worried. He had started out extremely concerned when he was dragged back to his cell without his friend he had just been forced to punch into oblivion. He had grown more anxious each minute the monster did not return with said friend. He had felt panic's choking fingers when he estimated that an hour had elapsed. After two, then three became tension filled memories, he almost screamed of frustration, of his own lack of power to do anything but see the possibilities play out in front of his eyes. The one question kept coming back. At first he bit it down with rationalisations, with teachings and logic. But for every second that the bolts did not begin clunking, it pushed up harder, crept beneath another defence. It returned with a vengeance when he expelled it, until it occupied the whole of his thoughts._ Have I killed by best friend? _

It kept coming back, until all of a sudden something in him shut down and Morgan just hung there, not feeling, not thinking, not sleeping, just... being. He simply turned off.

This state lasted until all of a sudden, Morgan saw his mother's face before his eyes. What would she think of him now? She hadn't raised him to back down when things got hard. She'd raised him to protect his friends, his family, and everyone else. This was not like him. He had to stay strong, for his family. An image of his team at the BAU flashed before his eyes. Yes, they were his family too. And he knew they were going to come for them. Hell, Garcia would stop at nothing if she knew any of her babies were in trouble. She'd probably take down the bastard herself, before even Hotch could get in the way- one of his Monday morning glares would be enough to stop any un-sub. But even he was bested now and again. On the other hand, thinking of Prentiss' killer aim made him actually feel a little sorry for the son of a bitch. He knew even if everyone else gave up, she would stop at nothing to find them. Little things like laws didn't matter much to her when her family was put at risk. And he knew she was particularly protective of Reid- they all were.

So, he was quite mentally prepared for the un-sub when he entered. His team would find them; it was only a matter of time. In the meanwhile, he had to keep this psycho occupied. Okay, he could to that.

"You really are a sadistic son-of-a-bitch, you know that? That was un-necessarily cruel. Plus, why are you picking on a kid half your size? Seems like you're only brave when you're holding a knife, huh?" The man's mouth twitched, and Morgan got a sick sense of satisfaction from knowing he was getting under the man's skin.

Though he waited for an answer, the man only ordered him to be quite, and told him they were moving before gagging him (a feat Morgan did not make easy) and unchaining him. Morgan felt embarrassed by how hard of a time he had standing. He had to eat soon, or he was going to collapse. His mouth was drier than the didn't make any trouble as the man pushed him down the hall, and into a new door. This room had black walls, and a black and white chequered floor. The ceiling was scarlet. When he entered, the man wordlessly pulled out a snub-nosed revolver and pointed it at him, while un-locking all of the restraints on Morgan's wrists and ankles. He then ordered him to attach a heavy metal clasp around his ankle. Morgan could see it was attached to heavy old chain that was about 20 feet long. That, in turn, was secured to the wall. He hesitated, but complied none the less. He had not the strength to resist. After ensuring that he had attached it properly (it had a self-locking device). He looked him in the eyes and spoke in a monotone.

"This shall be your new place of residence. Spencer shall be around shortly, as will food." His lip curled, and Morgan could see he was un-happy with showing hospitality. For some reason though, he seemed like he had to do it. Actually, he looked like an elementary school kid being forced to apologise for saying something rude to a rival. Reid was right, this didn't make sense. He left, and Morgan let himself sink to the hard floor. Boy, was it nice to be able to position himself comfortably.

His stomach growled, and he wondered when the un-sub would be along with the food, and if it would even be safe to eat. As if in response, the door opened. The man reappeared, but this time carrying Reid bridal style, his head lolling back over the bastard's arm. Morgan say Reid's condition and swore and him, gritting his teeth as the monster placed him almost gently on the ground and attached a clasp to his ankle as well. The second he- no, IT left, Morgan ran over to his friend. Well, almost ran. More like crawled very fast.

He cradled Reid's head, combing his straggly hair out of his face. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and Morgan could see all of his upper body except his upper chest which was concealed by long bandages wrapped around it. Hopefully whatever new injury they concealed wasn't especially serious... He was even thinner than he had ever imagined. It was obvious to them all that the genius had lost weight recently, but he was shocked by the way his ribs stuck out. His stomach, though more toned then Morgan had thought, was concaved and very pale. His pants looked too big, and his hip bones were far too prominent to be healthy.

His weight wasn't the main of the older agent's concerns though. He was covered in bruises, especially on one mottled patch that started below his ribcage and spread almost to the bandages. Morgan recognised it with a stab of guilt as the place he had hit him. It was quite wide, and he felt sure that a few of his lower ribs were cracked or broken. His arms had finger marks in purple in several places where he'd been grabbed, and the area around the tight shock-collar was almost black, staining his long, elegant neck. Even his face was marred- there were a couple bruises on his prominent cheekbones, and a long fresh scratch down the left side of his face. Not to mention the dried blood that matted his hair and forehead. His eyes were sunken, and had shadows around them.

He traced one of his fingers down the scratch, feeling hopeless rage inside him. He was going to KILL that asshole. Reid murmured something in his sleep, and pushed his head into Morgan's arm and chest. He looked so peaceful... Who could hurt someone as innocent as this? As be heard the bolts un-locking, he placed Reid back on the floor and moved away from him. As much as it hurt him, he couldn't let the un-sub see how much he meant to him. It might give him ideas. And heaven knows, he didn't need any more of those.

He was shocked to see, however, to see not the man he had been expecting, but a girl... it was the one from before, but what was this? She was holding her head high, and was carrying a silver tray laden with food. That wasn't the most confusing part though. She was wearing a tight mini-dress, fish net leggings and dark make up. What the fuck?

"...Mir-" He swallowed, trying to get enough moisture to talk. "Miranda?" She gave him a sunny smile- _what the fucking fuck was going on?_- and replied.

"I am the bearer of sustenance, have no fear. You seem to need it." She placed the tray on the ground.

"What the fu- I mean, erm, what's going on?" He was startled when the answer to his question came, not from the expected source, but from one he thought to be unconscious. Reid's voice came out in a dry croak, and there was a certain lack of emotion in them that boded of nothing good for the pair on them.

"She's the un-sub, Morgan. The dominant one."

* * *

Hotch stared out at the sea of attentive faces, each wondering why, why, he had called every officer on the investigation out to listen to him- despite the fact that the profile was incomplete. They looked hungry, like dogs begging for a scrap of food. _Or information, I suppose. _He suspected many of them were sure that this had to do with the two conspicuously missing agents. Well, he wasn't one to disappoint, and Ms. Delaire had insisted that the cavalry be informed of the situation after the time they were missing for exceeded 72 hours. All eyes were on him, as he began, using his best stone-face, and in the most efficient, controlled voice he had. They were not going to take this well, and he needed to do as much as possible to keep their faith in his team.

"Thank you for taking the time to hear me. I know you are all busy, but I assure you this is of the utmost importance. I'm going to get strait to the point." He took a deep breath, and the cops practically leaned forwards in anticipation. "You may have noticed two of our officers missing. Agents Morgan and Reid disappeared on our first night here. We are under the assumption that they have been taken by the un-sub."

Before he could continue, the office erupted into chaos.

* * *

Greg furiously attacked the punching bag, imagining it was the '_dear doctor' _SHE was so fixated upon. What could that skinny, impertinent _thing _offer HER that he couldn't? It pained him to see HER be contaminated by him. What should SHE, the Queen of queens, the pale, Elegant Empress of Everything, his one and only Commander, want with that weakling?

He would show HER how unworthy it was.

He would prove himself superior.

But not yet. SHE would surely see it eventually. SHE never let him down. And after the punishment SHE had given him for hurting the big agent without HER consent... he shuddered. He would never go against HER orders again.

Still... it was his duty to protect HER- right?

And if he protected her from the doctor's influence, SHE would be happy- yes?

SHE would see, once she was free from the mental strings, the ties that held HER brain down, his ties, that Greg had only done what was necessary- true?

Maybe this was a test SHE'd set up. To see if he knew his duty, to see if he was worthy. It that was true, he would be doing what she wanted- RIGHT?

He didn't know what to do anymore.

* * *

**The review button was surfing knife catalogues online the other day. You know it threatens me. Please, you gotta help me! All you gotta do is press that button! **

**And make sure you TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT POSSIBLE MORGAN/REID! I need to know what you guys want me to so cause it influences the way the story turns out!**


	9. Chapter 9

**He-ey!**

**It's time for some... BLATENT ADVERTISING! YAY! *crowd goes wild* I haven't yet come to a conclusion on the slash issue... BUT I did release a one-shot about Reid/Morgan. Not implying you should check it out, of course. **

**Anyways, as of right now I am REDICULOUSLY pleased with the fact that last chapter the amount of reviews for it HIT THE DOUBLE DIGITS FOR THE FIRST TIME! Right now, there's one more person for slash than against. Anyways, I'm feeling indecisive and that seems to close to make a decision on, so let the voting continue!**

**WARNING: torture, possible slash, you know the drill, violence **

**DISCLAIMER: well, I was going to stop putting this in, and then I discovered over half my drama class did not know who Hamlet was until I told them last Wednesday. So, I have lost my faith in the intelligence of the masses, and will continue to stress that I DO NOT OWN CRIMINAL MINDS. **

* * *

It took eight minutes and Hotch yelling to quiet the station. Prentiss sighed, trying to keep her anger from showing through. Her teammates were MIA and all the policemen could do was cause an unnecessary scene. _For God's sakes, do they have any training at all?_ Eventually, Hotch had managed to get the men settled down, and told them what they needed to know. Of course, pointless questions ensued (you would think they had realised the first thing they would do would be to track their cell phones). One woman even asked if they might have just decided to take some personal time. Honestly, people these days... Prentiss wished they would give the agents some credit. They had got where they were through a LOT of training, hard work and studying. Not through dumb luck.

Rossi tapped her on the shoulder, interrupting her angry, sleep-deprived thoughts. He motioned with his head, and she realised that Hotch had finished speaking and the team was heading towards a regrouping session in their room. As she followed him, she considered the psychological states of her teammates. Rossi hadn't been with the team as long as the rest, but she could see how concerned he was. He had been with the Bureau a long time and had seen many friends fall, she knew. She knew he was hiding his worry for the agents behind his usual calm. Hotch had become more efficient than ever, clearly using work as a coping mechanism. He saw himself as responsible for everything that happened to his agents, and was probably blaming himself.

She turned her head and saw J.J. pacifying a clearly distressed officer. J.J. had been very upset, though she tried to hide it. She obviously still blamed herself for the first time Reid had been kidnapped. The blond was very protective of her friends, and Prentiss could see how worried she was about their youngest agent. Strangely, Prentiss realised that she and Hotch were probably the only two people who didn't think Reid would have a harder time coping than Morgan. Not that she wasn't worried about him, she was just equally worried about the pair. Most people didn't notice Reid's internal strength. They forgot all the things he had gone through when they looked at him; they only noted his geeky awkwardness and child-like enthusiasm. Prentiss knew that he had the capacity to think under very stressful situations, and thought many people underestimated him. And Hotch... the team leader had always respected him as an agent. She had a feeling it had to do with the time they had both seen trapped in an emergency room with an armed un-sub. **(A/N- an awesome episode, btw)**. She hadn't been there, but she had heard about it.

Prentiss sighed as Rossi held the door open for her. And then there was Garcia. When they had broken the news to her, they had been expecting fireworks. They had not been disappointed. Prentiss nearly shuddered at the memory of the tech-analyst's wild swings between denial, despair and death-ray dealing wrath. She knew that the bubbly woman was terrified that something might happen to 'her babies'. Add that to her maternal instincts towards Reid and her and Morgan's obvious close friendship... Prentiss could sympathise with her panic though. She had watched many colleagues' demises, had had too many friends taken from her in seconds. The BAU was different though. Despite her days at Interpol teaching her never to get too close to people, she couldn't help but regard her team as family. She would protect them with her life, and trust them with hers. So, basically, she was ready to kick this un-sub's ass all the way to the moon the second he so much as touched either one of them.

The second the door shut behind them, locking out sound, Hotch began speaking.

"This is not going to end well if we don't find them soon. The investigation is rapidly losing faith is us, and I'm not sure how long the tension is going to hold before it breaks and we lose our chance to catch this-" he pause, like he was about to say something else before continuing "un-sub. Our priority right now is to get the profile down. We need to get the manpower something to refer to, something to look for. J.J., I need you taking care of the media. I doubt anyone has seen them, this job is much too professional for that and I don't want to encourage them by giving them what they want. We cannot incite panic right now. We do not want to make a story out of this. It will only egg him on. Work with Garcia; have her monitor the internet for any leaks. Rossi, Prentiss, we've done everything we can with the families and witnesses. We need to focus on profiling." Everyone nodded, and J.J. snatched up her laptop before leaving. Rossi (who had sat down), leaned forward and rested his fingertips together pensively. Prentiss collapsed into a chair, rubbing her head. Hotch, still standing, leaned on the table.

"I have been considering something." Rossi started, voice low and slow. When no one interrupted him, he continued speaking. "I'm curious about why the un-sub doesn't kill children. I doubt it's a matter of principle, the un-sub hasn't displayed any reluctance to harm others, and I don't see why they would view children any differently. I'm surprised they haven't, actually, given how much they clearly enjoy flaunting their superiority and, well, shocking us." He paused, thinking. Prentiss took advantage of it.

"It could be they feel protective of children, maybe see themselves in them? The un-sub is quite possibly delusional." He shook his head.

"That's quite possible, but to me it seems more like they regard children as... inferior. Like they're not worth their attention. It seems more like they want a challenge; want to show everyone how much better they are. I would guess they don't see children as complex enough- there is an obvious mental or psychological side to the torture. In fact, I propose that if we study the victim's order, they probably get more interesting- particularly in the relationships between the victims." They all looked at one another. Were they finally onto something?

* * *

Morgan stared in shock at the pale girl, who, upon hearing Reid's tired but absolutely sure accusation, pouted. She stuck her lip out about a foot, thrust her hands down and made a few small hops of frustration.

"AWWWWWWW! Spennn-ce! I was going to inform him in a dramatic way! It was going to be marvellous fun. That wasn't nice." She narrowed her eyes, and even through his surprise, Morgan's inner profiler noted how well educated she sounded, even in the midst of her petulant fit. He didn't like how familiarly she spoke to Reid, either. "You should be more respectful of me. You as well, Derek. Stop staring at me in such a way that implies you're shocked that I'm capable of such a thing. It offends me that you underestimate me so. I am perfectly capable of doing this." She looked at him in a way that clearly said she wanted a response. He was tired of these games, and felt a stab of white hot anger.

"I don't care who did this, they are going to suffer! Why the fuck would you?" Morgan was just so... confused by all these games. Not to mention frustrated. They weren't toys, for god's sakes. This was their LIVES she was playing with. Didn't she understand that? He blinked as her face went from giggly mock-anger to totally blank in a split-second. Then, a leer appeared on her face, and she approached him in slinky, swaying movements. She sashayed her hips, taunting him with her eyes, as she leaned in. He couldn't move as she began talking in a low voice.

"Because I can... Is that not the reasoning you hoped for? Not the rationalizations you desire? Because I'm bored by life, that's why. Now, you haven't been very respectful. Giving second chances is over glorified by American media, is it not? So, I'm going to have to punish you... and I know just how to do that best..." By the time she'd finished, her head was right beside his, and she was growling into his ear. Suddenly she pulled back, gave him a slow smile, and took an all too familiar small black remote from her pocket.

"No." Morgan's voice sounded weak, even to him. She was just so... intimidating. "Don't shock him, not again..." She cocked her eyebrow, as if to say he had to do better than that. "Please, don't. Please."

"Well, since you were so very polite, I'll grant your request." Morgan sighed in relief. "But shocking's not the only thing that collar can do." She smiled, and ignoring Morgan's cry of no, pressed a quick combination of buttons.

A second passed. Morgan turned, seeing things in slow motion as he made eye contact with Reid. The younger agent's eyes were wide, resigned, and full of despair. One whole second passed, one second dropped to the ground like a heavy, laden drop of spring's first rain. That one drop that is the only warning before the torrential downpour commences. That one drop, that prelude of the storm to come.

Then, hazel eyes widened further, red lips parted, hands flew to neck, back arched. Hoarse scream echoed through the enclosed space. Blood, dark and red, flowed from underneath collar, slicking damaged skin, staining white bandage. Finally, cry becomes coughing, raspy panting sets in. Morgan realised a few seconds later that he was on his feet, intent on the death of the smiling girl before him. It was only the black object she raised that stopped his murderous instincts. Instead, he ran to his friend, cradled his head, tried to see what damage the collar had done. Every time he touched it, Reid gasped in pain. The limp, wordless form of his friend in his arms, he turned his head to meet her eyes, spitting out his words, face set in a snarl.

"What the fuck did you do to him, you sick bitch?" He placed all his hate, all his fury, into that gaze. She only smiled.

"It has barbed spikes set into the inside. Now that they're out, they're impossible to retract. You really should work on you language, Derek. It's not befitting of such a handsome young man. Now, eat up. My butler, Greg- the man you met earlier- will be around for the plates in several hours. Toodles!" And, with an infuriating smile, she skipped out of the room.

* * *

Reid felt... fuzzy.

After the pain, there was blackness, accompanied by a sense of rough movement, and a collision with a hard surface. Then, there was black and white and grey nothing for a while. He felt as if he was tumbling, out of control, into the void inside him. He had no control, nothing to stop him, nothing to pull him back from the emptiness. He wasn't even sure where else he should be, or where he was, only that somewhere, there was something or someone waiting for him he needed to get back to. Then, just as he began wondering if he was falling indeed, or if he was soaring upward, something pulled him back. A hand, stroking his hair. A name: Morgan. And a vague sense of confusion. _But Morgan doesn't, wouldn't... _Then, suddenly, the hand was removed, and the warmth he had begun to feel with it. Voices. Pain, throughout his body, but mostly in his chest. His eyes slowly cracked open, like rusty garage doors put in use for the first time in years. And then, he saw her face. And it all came rushing back to him.

_Damn, I have to warn Morgan. He has no idea who he's dealing with. _As the thought crossed his mind, he heard his voice, stronger than he suspected he could manage. The second he saw her petulance, he knew she was looking for any excuse to hurt them. Miranda, he suspected, was sadistic, and loved having them under her control. Despite this, Reid thought that he anger over being underestimated was the most real emotion he'd ever seen her show. So, it was no surprise when she raised the remote the second time. He only had a second before the pain struck. But it was enough. Meeting Morgan's deep brown eyes, knowing that he wasn't alone in this situation, that Morgan was there to help him. It was, if not all he needed, then something to tide him over in the meantime.

This time the pain was different. He could feel the barbs tearing into his flesh, could feel them inside him (just short enough not to fatally injure him). He knew they wouldn't come back out easily, he knew this collar would not be removed. He was to focused on dealing with the biting pain to really register it when Morgan wrapped his arms around him, or when Miranda left. But he knew one thing. The collar was just that- a mark that Reid was hers; that he wouldn't escape. And honestly? That was the first thing about this un-sub that well and truly made him angry. He was not weak. He wasn't going to give in that easily. And neither would his team.

It took about an hour for the pain to fade enough for Reid to function half-decently. There was a silence in the small, nearly-empty room, the silence of two people too tired to speak. Two people simply taking comfort in the knowledge that there was someone else who knew what they were going through. Reid hated to interrupt the illusion of peace, but he needed a distraction from the pain, and Morgan needed a distraction period.

He cleared his throat. "You should really eat something. We need to keep our strength up." Morgan started, surprised by Reid's voice. He looked over to the food she had brought in, which had been forgotten in the midst of the drama. He nodded, before glancing in concern down at Reid, who was slumped against the wall and his broad shoulder.

"Yeah, but are you sure you're okay?" Reid sighed. Typical Morgan, putting everyone else before himself. He pushed back from his supports, trying not to wince in pain, to demonstrate that he was fine.

"Don't worry about me, you've done enough. Plus, we need you in prime door-kicking-down condition if we want to get out of here." He said, with a trade mark wry smile. Morgan smirked, but couldn't hide the worry in his eyes as he replied in a light, teasing tone.

"I dunno, Pretty Boy, I think it's you who needs to eat a bit. There's a few skeletons out there pissed off at you for stealing their look." Though he said it in a joking tone, it was obvious he was seriously upset about his friend's condition. Reid felt a rush of guilt for worrying his friend, combined with a rush of feelings the kidnapping had pushed to the back of his mind. He remembered that even before this, he hadn't been fine. He automatically bit his lip and looked at the ground, cursing himself. _Morgan's a profiler, could I make it any more obvious that everything's not right? _He hastily tried to buy time.

"Look, I'll eat if you do." He smiled, and scooted over to the tray in the center of the cell. Morgan sighed.

"Fine. But we talk after."

Reid hesitated before responding. "Fine... I guess."

* * *

Morgan hadn't realised just how starving he was until he began eating. He knew he had to pace himself, to prevent his contracted stomach from cramping up and making him puke. It was just very hard to comply with that knowledge. He managed it, though, by focusing his energy on Reid instead of gobbling down everything they had been brought. The Kid would barely nibble at the food at first, but after much coaxing Morgan finally had him ingest enough to satisfy him. Not having an appetite was a bad sign, and they both knew it. Thank God that their captors had at least provided more than enough for the both of them. Surprisingly, it was nice food too. Not that he really cared or registered what he was eating, but it tasted expensive. Far more importantly, copious amounts of peppermint tea had been provided. Right now, dehydration was their worst enemy. Food could be done without; water, not so much.

After he had eaten enough to satisfy his hunger, but no more, Morgan brushed off his hands and turned to Reid. As much as he wanted to needle the younger man about why he wasn't taking care of himself, there were more pressing matters to attend to. That could wait another hour. He promised himself it wouldn't be much longer than that, though, as given the reluctant look in Reid's eyes, there was something wrong that he had been hiding for a long time. He cleared his throat.

"So what happened after... you know...? How did you know she was the un-sub? And what the f-, uh, the hell, happened to your chest?" He couldn't miss the relieved look in his friend's eyes as he started his response.

_C'mon, Reid, you should KNOW you're not off the hook yet. _

* * *

Greg paced back and forth in the gothic room MIRANDA insisted be referred to as HER 'Evil Lair'. He hated to argue HER orders, but he felt uncomfortable thinking of HER as evil. SHE was anything but, SHE was perfect. And despite HER explanation that evil was simply a narrow-minded moral for stupid people, he still couldn't quite bring himself to bandy terms like that pertaining to his Empress and Ruler. SHE was far too good for a faulty servant like him, he knew. Even though he knew he should be punished for failing to comply with HER orders, he couldn't deny he was nervous that the 'meeting' SHE had called with him was about further disciplinary action. He shuddered, remembering times when SHE had been truly angry with him. SHE was a force to reckon with. Not that that would surprise anyone who had been in HER exalted presence before. SHE practically oozed of power.

Greg's musing of the perfection of his lady were interrupted by the fashionably late entrance of The One HERSELF. SHE came in prancing and leaping from foot to foot in a swooping, un-rehearsed dance, and singing and improvised song in happy trills. He paused, and stood to attention respectfully, admiring HER careless elegance. HER movements, in his humble mind, were flawless.

"_Oh, for I have this feeling in the pit of my belly, _

_A feeling so lovely and perfect and carefree _

_A feeling that comes of a challenge, a game, _

_A feeling that this one won't be quite the same! _

_Oh, my for-too-long-listless mind engages, _

_There's a puzzle, one torn straight from pages _

_One that I've hunted for in many a volume,_

_One that I wish to suck up, like a vacuuu~um!" _

SHE paused, stopping HER dizzying rotations. "That last one doesn't sound quite right, does it? Oh, well, good enough." SHE turned, as if noticing Greg for the first time. "Ah, my ever faithful butler." SHE nodded, registering his bowed presence and thereby allowing him to relax from his attentive pose. He wondered if it was wise to speak.

"I thought that it was wonderful. You are truly gifted, m'lady." He bowed again, hoping SHE was not offended by his speaking out of turn. Thankfully, SHE chose to accept his compliment.

"Why thank you." He felt his heart soar, elated at the simplest of words from HER. He deserved not such kindness! "However, I did not call you here to discuss my numerous talents, as much as I'd love to." SHE gave him a wink that made his heart flutter. "No, now it is time to discuss the new rules. I have decided for a change in the game, given the unprecedented behaviour of our guest. This time, I wish to spend some quality time with our guests. The dear Doctor, particularly." SHE gave a grin, and despite the rush of jealously that accompanied HER words, Greg couldn't help but look forward to the sadistic perks that this would offer.

He was an amateur. SHE was a master of pain.

* * *

**Sorry this one is late again, I'm a horrible person. A horrible person with a LOT of math homework. So, things are going to get interesting. Next chapter: GARCIA TIME! HELLS YES! Plus, Reid and Miranda have some fun. You'll see, but it's going to be a more trippy chapter. YAY! **

**Last chapter was epic in terms of reviews, but, unfortunatly it's only served to sharpen the dread Review Button's appetite. It was buying duct tape last week, and I don't like to think about what that might mean for me. REMEMBER: the slash question. To do, or not to do? Voting is still open! **

**ps. was that song not epic?**


	10. Chapter 10

**He-ey there ladies and gents- and everyone else, or course!**

**So. Slash. In the end, the voting was close. To close for me to make a decision based purely on it. So, I decided to spend an hour meditating amidst candles and searching my soul for the answer. That didn't work though, so I played eeny, meeny, miny, moe. And landed on... NOT SLASH! So, though there will be a lot of emphasis on Morgan and my dear Reid's relationship, it will not turn romantic. This probably will result in my writing random slashy one-shots to get it good and out of my system. So it you were voting for yes, as many people were, wait. Have patience young padawans. A story will come for you. In the meantime, please continue reading mine! **

**WARNING: to-to-to-tortoise!- and torture, more on subject. General fabulousness, and some swearing. **

**DISCLAIMER: since I don't own CM, or more importantly Reid, I often stay up late configuring plans to change that state of events. And somewhere, Reid wakes up in a cold sweat without knowing why. **

* * *

"Holy fuck."

Not exactly elegant, or particularly insightful. Not at all intelligent, not even close to subtle. But it was all Morgan had to say after Reid had finished his tale. Reid understood that, and forgave him. Morgan had been fairly quiet throughout the re-telling, occasionally adding a comment or question, mostly about the profiling Reid had been doing while they had been separated. Reid had been a little nervous that Morgan wouldn't believe him, or think it was him panicking or a manifestation of one of the many, MANY other possible psychological issues that often arose in situations like these. Of course, he had accepted everything he said with the utmost trust. How on earth did he manage to get put in a team with such great people? And why had they not arrived in his life any earlier. That being said, Reid was practically wringing his hands in the minute-long silence after he finished where Morgan just stared at him in shock.

"How in Hell's name do things like this always happen to you, Pretty Boy?" Morgan shook his head. He had a smile, the sort of shocked, I-can't-believe-it-that's-so-terrible-but-I-can't-help-laughing-because-its-so-rediculously-horrible type of smile. They both just looked at each other, and burst out laughing.

It wasn't even really funny. They both ached all over from injuries. They were both fighting internal demons. They both were beginning to doubt they had any chance of getting out of this alive. But they were both so wound up in the moment, so tense from all of it, the whole stressful situation. It piled up, pushing against a dam of mental barriers and adrenaline. Until that one crack in the dam appeared, and the whole thing collapsed. And what was there to do, but laugh until tears streamed down their faces and their stomachs hurt? It was all so out of control, so stupidly unlikely and unlucky. And so they let their tired minds take a break and just rode on the emotional high that followed.

* * *

Garcia clutched her favourite hot pink fluffy pillow to her chest. It's fuzzy synthetic fibers clung to her wet face. She was so tired of all this worrying. Every time the team left she was utterly nervous. She had nightmares some nights about them all dead, and her all alone in her brightly coloured haven which didn't seem happy anymore. Nothing lit up the small room like the smiles of her loyal friends. No amount of stuffies and soft things could warm her up like the sight of them coming home safe again could. They were her family. After her parents had died and she'd gone a little crazy, she'd gotten many new friends to compensate. But no matter how many people she met, and tried to trust and rely on and love, she always felt that void. She was independent and unique, but when it came down to it, Penelope Garcia was a people person. She needed people to love and to love her. Then she'd gotten busted and began working for the FBI. Then she'd met her team. They'd been through hell and back together, and before long, the void inside her had disappeared while she wasn't looking. It had slowly filled up while she had been flirting with Morgan, giggling with J.J. or watching one of Reid's magic tricks. They'd suffered when Elle and then Gideon left, and grew to welcome Rossi slowly into their bond afterwards. They were human, they had weaknesses and strengths, and they ALL had a great many personality quirks. They were all damaged in some way or another, but she loved each and every one of them just the way they were.

So when she'd gotten the phone call that signalled her worst fears had once again come true, she hadn't wanted to believe it. She'd wanted to yell and scream and cry. Why? Why did things like this happen? As the next few days past and things gave no inclination of getting better, she had begun spending most of her time in her little room of shiny baubles and happy things, doing everything her team needed. Kevin came in as often as he could, and she would cry on his shoulder and feel a little better for a while, until he had to leave and she would be alone again, staring at the photos of them on her desk. She had to phone the rest of them a few times, just to hear their voices.

Garcia knew one thing for sure. She wasn't sure she could deal with the funerals of two of her team members. Morgan was the one she often relied on at times like this! He was always there for her, even when he was wound up in his own personal issues. He was always there to flirt with her when things went downhill and his broad, muscular shoulder was always there for her to sob into. He could always make her smile, even in her darkest moods. He was her yummy chocolate rock, her knight in shining armour. What would she do without him to lighten her? And what about Reid? How could someone ever want to hurt him? He was her little brother, hers to love and hug and protect. He had a sort of... innocence about him, even after everything he had gone through, he still had his geeky enthusiasm about the smallest things. He was the most genuinely kind, nice person she had ever met and crappy things just kept happening to him. How was that faire?

Now she was angry, angry at the world. She was mad at the people who were supposed to protect her team from things like this. She was mad at the horrible, horrible person who had taken her babies. She was mad at herself for not being able to do anything about it. But, most of all, she was mad at the fates, who kept trying to take her family from her.

* * *

J.J. wiped her eyes clean, erasing all evidence of her most recent crying fit. She was bent over the sink in the women's room at the police station. It was late, so most of the investigation was either at home or on patrol. Her team, of course, stayed later than everyone else and were still here. The point was she had the bathroom to herself, and before long the tears had begun to stream. She spent every waking moment trying to look as professional as humanly possible. She was a liaison, the team's public front. She was the one who had to display how calm and efficient the FBI was, how seriously they were taking this, how they had everything under control. So she stayed strong on the outside, dealt with the hungry press and the abrasive officers, and curled up in a tiny pathetic ball on the inside.

It wasn't that she was a weak person (she hoped), it wasn't that she was unused to the life of her co-workers being on the line, and it most certainly wasn't that she was just a stupid blond bimbo who couldn't handle the pressure. It was, however, the frustration that came with having to keep her emotions all tied up all the time, when she knew that soon the press would get wind of the whole situation or the policemen would stage a mutiny because the agent's hadn't shown results, or the un-sub would get bored and do something horrible... This was not going to go well, and she knew it.

J.J. took one last look at herself in the mirror, ensuring no one would have guessed she'd been crying. Then she turned on her heel and left the room briskly. She got back to her desk, sat down at her laptop and began typing out and reformatting a press release the team had finally agreed upon. They had to be very careful what they told the public. One wrong move and the whole thing collapsed like a card tower. She paused and looked at the time. _Damn, I told Will I'd phone him... _He, of course, couldn't be told what had happened, but obviously sensed something was wrong. _Hmm, I wonder if it was the crying that tipped him off? _J.J. thought sarcastically. She sighed, and opened her internet browser. It was too late to call him now, but she owed it to him to at least email him.

She opened her personal, online email and paused before creating a new message. What was she supposed to say? She just wanted the case over and her team safe. She replied to the new messages in her inbox, buying time. She then went into her junk email to delete it (again, buying time), when a headline amidst the spam grabbed her attention. All of a sudden, all thoughts of emailing her husband were shot from her mind. She started breathing harder as she followed the link to a website she never would have normally visited, before jumping from her chair and half running, half walking as fast as she could to the BAU's office. She burst into it, interrupting Prentiss, Rossi and Hotch's tired debating. They turned to look at her in surprise which soon turned to fright and anger.

"Hotch. Someone's leaked the news about the kidnapping to some website. We don't have much time before the real press gets wind of this."

* * *

It was almost ten minutes before Reid and Morgan could get a hold of themselves. Eventually, the laughter became fits and starts of giggles, before they were left breathing a little harder than before, sitting a little less hunched than before and a little more prepared to face their tormentors then before, but ultimately in the same position they had been in before. Laughter had helped, but now it was time to deal with reality. They looked at each other, and let the last of their smiles slip from their faces.

"We need to get some sleep." Morgan said. "It isn't exactly comfortable here, and we still have a lot to talk about, but we obviously need to rest." Reid nodded, accepting the older man's lead as usual. "Collapsing into hysterics is not what we need to be doing right now. We need to be ready for this." He lay down on his side, facing Reid who did the same as he responded.

"Actually, laughing has been proven to help the mind and body in many ways. Not only does it improve circulatory and vascular health, but many studies show great improvement in mental health. In fact, in 2005 a study was done on-"

"Just go to sleep, Reid."

Both Reid's mind and body were worn out, but despite this he continued to shift his weight around long after Morgan had drifted off. It wasn't just that his long frame and sharp angles made it incredibly hard for him to find a comfortable position, even without his battered condition, it was something more. He was so absolutely terrified by all of this. The whole situation was balanced on their ability to read the un-subs, and Reid knew a lot of that responsibility was going to fall on him. Miranda clearly had a fixation with him, it had been evident by the way she talked to him. And though he was glad Morgan wouldn't have to deal with it, he couldn't help but wish it hadn't been him straddled with the immense responsibility. He knew Hotch, Rossi or Prentiss would have handled her, and Gideon most certainly could have if he hadn't left, so why had he gotten in another situation like this? _It's because I'm incompetent and can't defend myself. This is all my fault. And what if I start developing symptoms? Schizophrenia doesn't care where I am, what situation I'm in. What if I lose myself and do something stupid? What if I leave Morgan here alone? What if I screw up? What if I can't handle it and snap? It's happened before, to better people. What if- _

A loud snore from Morgan interrupted his doubts mid-internal rant. He needed to calm down. He was supposed to be a genius. Not to mention they were being held hostage by an insane serial killing duo. It was hardly the appropriate time for self doubt and confusion. He needed to sleep, he knew that. He shut his eyes, and tried to be anywhere else but on those cold, hard tiles.

Eventually he fell into a fitful slumber, haunted by echoes of his own uselessness and pictures of crime scenes. It all came swirling around and wrapping him up in ribbons of internal pain and suffocating panic. All those days alone with his mother when she'd been at her worst. All those days when he'd been at his worst, curled up in a ball on his bed wracked by withdrawal symptoms and only thoughts of his team barely keeping him from being washed away, giving into his desperate needs. And the worst of it- thinking about what would happen if the illness took him and he became like his mother. He never, EVER wanted his team, his family, to see him like that. The statistics, the thoughts he could control when conscious, came rushing in. He knew far too much for his own good, and all the facts wouldn't give him any rest, even during sleep.

Reid woke with a start, sitting up in an instant. He was painfully aware of everything around him. Morgan's even breathing, the faint sheen of sweat across his own skin and all the assorted injuries littered across his body. He had probably only been sleeping for a few hours. It seemed unreasonably cruel that even during this situation his mind wouldn't let him rest. He lay back down slowly, and tried to get some proper sleep. He had only small success.

* * *

Morgan woke with a groan. Man, had he been out of it. He automatically assessed his surroundings, having (thank god) managed to skip the awkward wait-where-the-fuck-am-I stage this time around. He frowned at Reid, who was leaning against the wall looking troubled. He had shadows under his eyes (more than usual, that is) and his lips were pushed into a thin line. His hair was knotted and messy, and his arms were curled around his body. His knees were pulled up to his chest. Morgan propped himself up on one arm. Reid obviously heard the movement and swivelled his head around to meet his gaze. His frown was quickly wiped off and replaced by a teasing smile. Not quickly enough for Morgan's expert eye though.

"You're finally up. Honestly, only you could sleep that soundly in this situation. I would have worried you'd died in your sleep- if it wasn't for the snoring." Morgan couldn't resist a chuckle as Reid's familiar lopsided grin smeared itself across his face. He couldn't forget the expression the other man had been making a few seconds ago, but his smile still held some of that innocent geeky-ness that made Reid, well, Reid.

"Are you really criticizing my health habits? I'm thinking whatever I'm doing is going pretty well for me, eh, Mr. Skeleton-I-Stay-Up-Til-Three-In-The-Morning-Watching-Star-Trek-And-Crappy-Documentaries?" He flashed a smile to the younger agent to let him know he was screwing with him. **(A/N I know putting author's notes in the middle of stories upsets the flow or whatever, but I just have to say what an unfortunately hot mental image those words gave me.) **

They were interrupted by the dreaded, now familiar smooth clicks of well-kept locks and heavy clunks of huge bolts. _Do you reckon those doors are bomb proof? I would believe it... _It promptly occurred to Morgan that Reid probably knew, though now was not the time to ask. It also occurred to him that he sounded like a twelve year old boy with ADD. Now was not the time, and his brain was only trying to distract him from the fear and pain coursing through his body. Greg opened the door, and Miranda floated in, wearing a short black lace dress, silky black socks that came up to mid-thigh height, and a black fur cape that swept the floor as she entered. Nestled in her silvery hair were two black cat ears. She put her hands, complete with long black gloves, on her hips and addressed Morgan, who was seated in front of her, still against the wall.

"I don't think that t'would be of any help to any of us if you decide to do something idiotic. I wouldn't delude yourself with any presumptions of your capability to protect yourself and our dear Spencer in this situation." Her tone was icy, and left no room for doubt as to her willingness to prove to him just how incapable he would be. Her eyes gouged into his soul, and he found he was utterly terrified of the fairy-like girl. Then he eyes landed on Reid, who had sat up straight upon her entrance. Automatically her eyes lit up, and a smile lit her face.

"Spencer, darling, you seem to have recovered well enough." She near-gushed. _You're the one who hurt him in the first place, you psychopathic bitch _Morgan thought angrily. "To tell you the truth, you looked so adorable in that collar I simply had to find one for myself." She gestured to the black silk and lace band that encircled her neck. Morgan ground his teeth together. He was so ready to kill this delusional little... He couldn't even express just what he thought of her. He was shocked when, instead of reasoning with her like they'd been trained, Reid responded totally differently.

"I mustn't receive any credit for my own appearance, I haven't seen what I look like in days. I certainly admire your cape though. I was under the impression it was illegal in many parts to use black bear fur for such uses though." He gave a cool smile, to which she tittered and covered her black lips with one hand.

"Oh, you just have to know where to look. Besides, I doubt that if I get in trouble with the law it will be on accord of my fashion." She gave a coy smile. "But then, I expect that's what Al Capone thought when he did his taxes."

Reid smiled appreciatively at her 'joke', and his tone was actually amused as he responded. "Or perhaps Vlado Taneski when he wrote just a little bit too well for his articles. You never know what clue will lead to your demise." She gave him a teasing smile, and Morgan felt for a minute they were sharing private joke. Miranda's tone had a hint of something deeper, more melancholy when she answered him.

"Well that's just what makes it fun, now isn't it? I have to make a confession; I did not come merely for the pleasure of your company. The rules to the game have changed." She gave a mysterious smile, but her perfect composure cracked when Morgan spoke. She seemed like she'd forgotten all about him.

"You're wrong. The rules haven't changed, because this is not a game. This is a sick, twisted fantasy of yours that you indulge in. Have you forgotten that we're both people? Now, I know you're an intelligent woman, so I won't disrespect and insult you by trying to trick you. You know, if you know anything about us, that our team is a force to be reckoned with. As are we. Every second you keep us here against our will increases the risk someone will figure you out, something will go wrong for you. And you know that the more your hurt us, the more resolved our team is. And the less chance you get out of this alive and able to use your brain for more constructive things." He stared at her, trying to worm into her head and make his words hit home. Instead, her mask only grew smoother. She gave him an extremely condescending impressed look.

"Wow, Derek, I _am_ surprised with you. So you _are _good for something other than kicking down doors, flirting the female witnesses into complying with your team and losing your temper. A reasoned argument. I never knew you had it in you. Bravo." She clapped her hands together in a light, polite applause. Morgan gritted his teeth again. Where did this girl get off?

"Look, you can pretend away the truth all you want, but we both know this was a stupid move on your part. Do you honestly think they'll let you off lightly after the kidnap and torture of two FBI agents? Is this really worth the adrenaline rush?" He stared into her eyes, trying to appeal to her reasonable, intelligent side. But her eyes were like those of a shark, black and bottomless.

"This is a very interesting debate for another time- but, quite frankly, one that you have not the mental capacity to properly participate in. For now, you should be more concerned about the change to the rules." She gave him a light, cold smile. "I take your lack of interruption as agreement." Here she started pacing in front of them, heels clicking and black cloak swishing along the ground behind her. Miranda looked for all the world like some unearthly general, rallying her nightmare troops. "It's rare I get any good conversation, and since dear Spencer is oh-so-cute when he screams, I have decided we need to spend some more quality time together."

Neither Greg nor Morgan reacted well. Greg hissed, and shot a glare at Reid before quickly covering up his expression. A vein in Morgan's neck jumped like it had touched a live wire. He opened his mouth to argue with her before she silently raised both that fucking remote and one of her eyebrows. She silently taunted him with his own uselessness. Never had he felt so... impotent. Well, not since a long time ago. But he refused to relive those memories. They would always haunt him.

Seeing that a semblance of calm had returned to the group, Miranda continued. "I wish to test myself, and worthy opponents are hard to find in this day and age. Once every twelve hours, I shall come and Spencer and I will spend some quality time together. If, in the end, he manages to 'defeat' me in whatever the competition happens to be, or if he sways my affections and whims in some other way, the both of you shall be duly rewarded. If the opposite of this should occur, then, well, things will be considerably less pleasant for the two of you." She smiled down at them, clearly excited by the prospect of the latter option. "Not to worry though, Derek" She suddenly continued. "I shan't forget about you. You see, my butler over here needs something to occupy himself with while Spencer and I get closer. I suggest the two of you... get to know each other a bit better. I think you'll get along if you give one another a chance! Or you can just argue the whole time; it makes no difference to me."

Miranda gave them a look that indicated she was finished. Morgan was ready to do some head cracking. There was no way he was letting Reid get tangled up in her twisted games with no one to protect him. He was about to start an angry rant that would hopefully dissuade her from her current planned proceedings, when a quiet voice interrupted them. Reid had been silent during their exchange, letting the two alphas battle it out. He usually stayed out of the way when Morgan took the lead like this, so Morgan was surprised when he started talking.

"As much as I dislike the prospect of being at your mercy, Miranda, I doubt arguing about the situation will change it." He cleared his throat, and his voice strengthened just a little. "When does this arrangement start?" Morgan felt a stab of pain at how much weaker Reid's words were from usual. They needed to get out of here fast. At Miranda's words, however, he felt a stab of something else. Pure, unadulterated, panic.

"Now, of course."

* * *

Garcia was still in her office when J.J. called her. She knew she should have left to go home a long, LONG time ago, but even the satisfying spurts of anger couldn't make her forget her sadness, her desperation. They had, however, resulted in the death of many of her highly prized and equally breakable knickknacks. She was crouched over the screen, playing Robot Unicorn Attack in another desperate attempt to distract herself while she waited for the results of yet another useless scan. Somehow the policemen just kept thinking up more and more unlikely ways of analysing the victims. Normally they would have disregarded these as useless and unnecessary, but they were giving anything a shot at this point. She snatched up the phone the second it rang, trying and failing to quash the hope that blossomed like a rose in her chest. A rose just as capable of making her bleed with its sharp thorns as bringing her peace with its wide, soft petals.

J.J.'s urgent tone erased any doubts she may have harboured that the former was what was in store for her. "Garcia? We need you- some website got word of what happened. We can't let this get out of control." Garcia was all business in seconds. No time for angsting when trouble was afoot.

"Of course... what's the url?" Her nimble, practiced fingers were already dancing across the keys. "Never mind, I've got it. What does Hotch want me to do with it?"

"Get rid of it. Look, I know that's asking a lot, and that once something's on the internet it can't be removed, but please, please just do your best. This cannot happen. If we lose control of this thing..." Her voice cracked and trailed off. Garcia could hear the tiredness in her voice. She sounded terrible, and had obviously been crying. She shouldn't be up this late. Determination took hold of the tech assistant. This was her territory.

"Who do you think you're talking to? This is your very own technical goddess, you do realise? I eat the laws of the internet for breakfast." She let J.J. hear her smile through the phone. "Now, you need to get some sleep. You need to keep yourself the perky, blonde, no-nonsense J.J we know and love! This is my job now." She heard the liaison's worn-out laugh.

"Thanks Garcia." Garcia smiled, knowing that her role as eternal sunshine-bringer had been fulfilled.

"No probs, girlfriend. Now, I was serious. You and the team need to go get some sleep. This is mine now, and you can just go to bed and forget about it. In my books, it's already done."

"Okay, okay. I'll tell Hotch. You sure you can do this? You need sleep to..." J.J.'s motherly side came to the surface, leaving Garcia reminded why she kept this job. She needed to be there for the team, not just as techie but as emotional support. They worried about others far too much, and never took proper care of themselves.

"Good girl. Now shoo. I have work to do."

"'Kay. Thanks again. And goodnight."

As soon as J.J. hung up the phone, a considerable load taken off her back, Garcia's expression changed. The happy twinkle left her eyes; the bubbly, confident smile faded from her lips. In their place, a dark, dangerous gleam and a slightly evil smirk right off a comic book villain spread. Penelope Garcia, FBI tech assistant extraordinaire, leaned back in her swivel chair and cracked her knuckles. Now this was something she could help with. Sitting up here alone had generated a lot of internal tension, and it was time to harness that energy. She didn't care who was responsible. All she knew was that they were in her town now, and they had just made the greatest mistake of their pathetic lives.

Everyone has a dark side, and she was no exception. And when hers did come out, it didn't play fair. Or nicely. Because when her family was in danger, the law fell slightly in priority.

This was going to go down right now, and it was coming down all over someone's head.

* * *

Reid followed Miranda down to the end of the steel corridor outside their room. She was humming and skipping ever so slightly every second step. He had to admit that even with the chains and tight handcuffs, it was nice to stretch his long legs. He was actually fairly unsurprised that she had 'changed the rules'. He had suspected she would do something of the sort after she'd made it clear she viewed him as the first worthy nemesis she'd come across. He wasn't ready for her, per se, but he was rested and had what food he'd managed in his stomach and Morgan's reassurances that they could handle this, and that they would get out of here. He knew the odds were astronomically low, but somehow he felt like they had a chance now- if only because Morgan had said it.

Miranda stopped when they reached a large metal door identical to the others in the hall. She gave him a smile to remind him to step back of get zapped, then opened it. Inside was a room different from the others. This one's wall were covered in dark plum velvet, and had lights in strategic locations. There were several floor length mirrors scattered along the walls, and a black wooden door (shut). At the back of the room, about ten metres across, was a huge, antique wardrobe. She led him in, twirling around.

"Not too terrible is it?" Reid took her words as a cue to enter. The door shut behind him a dull thunk. Miranda looked up at him, motioned for him to sit down on the thick, plush, crimson carpet. She sat down in front of him and continued talking. "This is my Evil Lair. I wouldn't bother looking around; it's even more secure than the rest of the... facility. There is no way for you to efficiently use your surroundings as a weapon- trust me, I've thought of it all."

"Ah, but you wouldn't know that for sure if you're the only person to have pondered the possibilities. The only way to ensure total security would be to have a great many people of all levels of intelligence and physical ability in my same position. That however, would result in the slow corruption of your security through overuse, and too many people with too much information." Reid finished thoughtfully. Miranda tilted her head to the side before answering.

"And your point is...?"

"That this is just another example of how true security is impossible. No matter how good the system, a weak point will either be discovered or form over time. This is the evolutionary nature of the world we live in." They looked at each other for a second, as if in an old western shootout. Then Miranda smiled.

"Touché. Well put, well put. You are indeed correct- I apologise for my hasty speech. Now, we can talk later. In the mean time, you must want to wash. I have a bathroom all lined up for you in there. You will find a change of clothes on the ground. Once you're done, tap on the door and I'll let you out. But remember, any trouble and... well, we all know how many accidents to do with electricity have water involved." She gave a chilling smile.

Reid smiled in return and thanked her as that exact statistic popped into his head. He doubted he'd be able to try anything in the bathroom, and anything useful would have been removed or rendered inutile. On top of that, right now she was probably repressing her sadistic urges, at least until he 'lost'. However, the second he 'broke the rules' he was sure she'd feel it was okay for her to do the same. And he really, REALLY didn't want that. He nodded as she told him he could find fresh bandages for his wound, before she waved him away, and pressed a button on the remote which opened the black door he'd seen. As he walked inside, all he could think of was the 'showers' in concentration camps during the second world war. The only thing he could do was enter and hope his fate wouldn't emulate those poor souls'.

* * *

**Okay, more was supposed to happen this chapter, but as you can see by my month-long holdout on posting (yes, I'm a bitch), I am a terrible author who inexplicably refuses to follow through with self-made guidelines. Also, I'd like to repeat one more time, THIS WILL AS OF NOW NOT BE SLASH. I am writing a oneshot for a manga I like to get rid of all my yaoi-inclined tendencies. **

**I need to tell you something else. Though I am a terrible author, the review button is an even eviller being. It recently bought copious amounts of duct-tape, and I caught it watching American Psycho the other day- and taking notes. **

**Anyway, if you value my life at all- hell, if you value YOUR life at all, I would review. Thank you and goodnight, its been wonderful playing for all you ladies and gents. I'll be here again in a week. I hope. **


	11. Chapter 11

**Salutations young padawans. **

**In response to a query I received of late, some recovery ****will**** be included. But only like three chapters, and- wait a second, you're assuming they get out of this alive! Never assume anything with me! Because I may just do exactly the opposite just to spite you! In fact, that's one of my favourite pastimes. **

**Back on topic though, in response to other possible questions, whumpage in NOT OVER. And yes, we will find out more about what happened to Reid's chest. And about Greg and Miranda. **

**Okay, this chapter's on time- but I know last chapter was a little filler... okay, a lot filler, so I'm trying to make this one better in that way as well. I hope you likey!****BY THE WAY- I know absolutely nothing about any sort of computer programming/ hacking/ whatever, so if I make any mistakes, that's because I made everything up. I'm really crappy with technology, so I'm just going with the 'fake it 'til you make it' strategy. It generally works for me rather nicely. **

**WARNING: torture, blood, swearing, angst, all the other things that make a story worth reading **

**DISCLAIMER: yeah, the show would have a worse rating if I owned it**

* * *

Reid heard the door click shut behind him as he entered the bathroom. It was surprisingly small, and very empty. Everything was covered in black tile. It was split in half by a crimson curtain, on one side of which there was a shower. Inside were three identical pale pink bottles, labelled shampoo, conditioner, and body wash in spiky black lettering. They smelt strongly of cherry blossoms. On the other side was a large mirror, made of reinforced glass he could see. There was no way of breaking that. The counter was a simple chunk sticking out of the wall with a shallow black basin set in it. The taps were small, and nondescript. A hairbrush was carefully laid beside the black bar of soap. The only other things in the room were three baskets- one labelled 'dirty old clothes and bandages', the next 'new bandages and disinfectant', and the last 'fabulous new clothes'- and a large fluffy black towel on the counter. When he picked this up, a facecloth fell out. As he picked it up, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and gasped.

He looked horrible. His eyes were sunken, the shadows around them made his usual ones look non-existent, and the rest of his face appeared thin and hollow and totally dominated by them. His hair was wild. It had tangled into tawny chunks, many of which were practically vertical. That wasn't even going into the dried blood caked in it, and dying the side of his face. The heavy black collar around his neck was surrounded by dark black and purple bruising, and was leaking blood. If you looked closely, you could even see the bottom edges of the tiny barbed blades that were still stuck in his neck. His shirt was disgustingly dirty, and had multiple tears in it and far, far too many blood stains for comfort. It hung off his thin form like a pillow case. But he wasn't so concerned about that. He shrugged it off as if in a dream, taking in his jutting hipbones and all too visible ribs along with the cuts and massive bruising. There was hardly a spot uninjured, and the spot where Morgan had been forced to hit him was pretty much black. He couldn't touch it without wincing, and he could see at least one rid was broken. But that wasn't what he was really interested in.

Reid dragged his reluctant eyes away from his 246 visible injuries and up to the dirty bandage surrounding his chest. He knew now wasn't the best time to unwrap it, but his trembling fingers moved without his mind's consent. He had to know what she'd done to him. He gritted his teeth and very nearly cried out as he struggled with the binding, until his impatient fingers tore it off and started hurriedly unwinding the long strip of cloth. His breathing became erratic as the anticipation got to him. He didn't know why this has suddenly become such a big deal to him, but it felt of the utmost importance at that moment. Maybe it was because he knew that these marks would stay with his for the rest of his life instinctively, or that it felt like this was her mark on him, but his panicked brain needed to know what had been done to his body. Finally the last loop fell away, and his aching chest was left uncovered. His pulse pounded as he stared at his right breast.

Just above his heart was a swirling, looping design that seemed to soar across his body. It was a butterfly, but the level of artistry was far beyond anything they'd seen on any of the previous victims. The raised angry red welts that covered the deep, swooping knife wounds were perfectly placed to give the butterfly a beautiful, delicate look. He laughed under his breath a little as he looked up at himself in the glass. _Well, at least my scars are gorgeously designed. _He couldn't help but be darkly amused by the irony of his pain creating such a pretty thing. _A macabre sort of glory, I suppose. _

He wrenched himself away from the mirror. The frozen awe of simply staring at the injury, his injury, left him. His knees felt weak and his stomach churned as he came down off the panicked adrenaline high. Looking at the wound made him feel woozy, and all he wanted to do was collapse on the cool tiled floor and disappear, abandon his abused, aching, damaged body and fade off into nowhere. Or, if that failed, just loose himself to the pain and sickness. Sweat glistened on his brow as he forced himself to remove his clothing and step into the shower. If he was trapped here, he may as well take advantage of the creature comforts provided. Plus, whether the shower eventually ran out of water or not could tell him a lot about the sort of facilities that were being exploited, and how many people would know of their existence. Information was key here, and that was one piece he would have no problem discovering.

* * *

Garcia fell backwards onto her chair, pushing her tangled blonde hair out of her face. Large chunks of it were sticking up out its previous hairsprayed-to-perfection state. She tapped her long, painted nails on the desk impatiently as she waited for the results of her search to load. She'd finished eradicating all traces of the rumour from the internet, through a mixture of her mad hacking skill, creative threats and when all else failed, FBI status. _So why are you still here instead of getting some much-needed and well deserved sleep?_ Garcia had been asking herself this same question for the better part of twenty minutes. She yawned, knowing she was going to collapse soon, but instead of leaving her work she just worked a kink out of her shoulder and took another generous gulp of coffee. She could hardly taste it anymore, which she was actually partially relieved by. Every time that its distinctive flavour hit her tongue, she thought of Reid. And she'd finally managed to stop crying every few hours!

The tech analyst refocused her mind to the task at hand. She really needn't be doing this... but she had to. She was going to find the son of a bitch that was working against her team, and by that working against the rescue of her family. On top of that, she was not going to let this asshole escape thinking the internet was his haven. She was going to prove that he could hide behind a screen like a coward if he wished, but that the internet could be turned against him as well.

Though the internet's very nature of intrusive connecting and spreading was what had aided the prick so far, it would also be his undoing. Because wherever he went, it left traces. All Garcia had to do was pick up on them. She smirked as she wrote the last line of coding on the program she had thrown together. It was inelegant, messy, and generally shoddy work and craftsmanship, but it was deadly and perfectly suited to her needs.

Suddenly she paused, finger hovering over the enter key. It occurred to her that the monster she was about to let loose all over the asshole's scent was actually a highly illegal virus, much of the same type that had got her caught by the FBI in the first place. She'd been so consumed by her revenge-goddess glory it hadn't occurred to her. Garcia frowned, and forced herself to think logically. She had a great job, a wonderful boyfriend and a loving team. She spent her days using her skills to help rescue people, using them for good things. Her life, while erratic and occasionally stressful, was the best it had ever been. She was happy. Was it really worth throwing all that away for some lowlife who didn't even matter in the grand scheme of things? Her thinking didn't last very long. She hit the enter key.

She sat back, satisfied, to watch her program at last capture the elusive identity of the person responsible for endangering her co-workers lives- which depended completely on her team being allowed to do their jobs to their fullest capacity. _Yes, I have a great life. But the people in it are far more important. And I have to protect them- even if the only thing I can do is punish those who attempt otherwise. _Before long, she had the information within her net. She shifted through piles of numbers and useless details. _C'mon, I need a name... I need a name, baby. Just give me one... A-HAH! I got you, you piece of trash. Time to face judgement. _She couldn't resist a smile as she sent the info to her team's phones. They would be in bed by now (she hoped), but that would be a nice little wake-up present.

As for Penelope? She needed sleep.

* * *

Morgan sat, leaning back against the hard wall. He wasn't comfortable, but he had rested and eaten and felt, if not good by any stretch of the term, in control. He would not let this bastard get to him. At this point, the only thing that could get him and Reid out of this was if the un-subs made a mistake. And Morgan knew that Miranda, bitch though she may be, would never make a mistake. Ever. Greg, however, was obviously only suppressing his murderous instincts because she told him to. He had a feeling Greg was naturally a highly disorganised sexual sadist, who murdered out of passion for pleasure. He was also quite dominant- which is why it was so remarkable that he clearly revered and even feared the younger girl. If Morgan angered him enough, he would screw up and hopefully drive a spike in between the dynamic duo. He had not a shred of doubt that Miranda would discard her butler in a heartbeat if she felt it necessary, and one un-sub was a LOT better than one.

So he studiously ignored Greg's presence and just folded his arms and looked blankly into the distance as if he was bored. Greg shifted from foot to foot, waiting for the other to acknowledge him first. He probably saw this as a direct assault on his dominance. The tension rose, until eventually Morgan broke it. _No need to make him too mad. Getting hurt would suck. _He kept his voice smooth and calm, keeping composure and managing to win their little battle for dominance despite the fact that he'd spoken first.

"So, what exactly did you want?" He could practically hear Greg's teeth grinding and veins throbbing as he answered, even though the other man kept his face reasonably blank. His body language told volumes.

"Well, you heard my lady's orders." He glared at Morgan, obviously contemplating how best to torture and kill him. Morgan nodded curtly and resumed staring at the wall. He saw Greg's brow crease for a fraction of a second, then a flash of vindictive joy. _Shit. This is not going to be fun. _"Do you happen to recognize anything about her godliness?" Morgan would have usually expected a comment comparing anyone to a god to be sarcastic, but not a trace of bitterness was apparent. It was like he legitimately thought she was a goddess. He kept his face clean of response though, and simply shrugged. Greg smiled.

"Not even about her clothing taste?" Greg grinned in a way that could only be described as... pure evil. Morgan's heart skipped a beat. _Could he be talking about...? _"Of course, your fat-ass technical analyst doesn't pull it off even a fraction of as well Miranda does." Morgan was torn between a red hot anger at Greg for talking about Garcia like that, especially for even considering comparing her to that bitch, and disgust at the way he so lovingly caressed her name. It was sickening. But he couldn't let this sick son of a bitch know he was getting to him. _I can't let him know how angry hearing him talk about her like that makes me. I have to keep control. Or else he has it. _

"Actually, I think Garcia looks one hell of a lot sexier. Plus, Miranda looks like a vampire, quite frankly." It was incredibly hard to hide the contempt from his voice as he said her name. Anger flashed across Greg's face, and his next words were spat out.

"And I would suppose you have a lot of experience judging women's looks. It seems like that's the only thing about them you have time to enjoy. I wonder why that is? It couldn't be that you're trying to make yourself feel masculine again, now could it?" He gave a knowing, chilling smile, and Morgan felt like he had a bucket of ice dumped on his head. His 'sleeping habits' were no great secret, and normally he would just laugh at how badly the un-sub had profiled him- except something about the look in the man's eyes filled his stomach with icy trepidation. Swallowing surreptitiously, he looked up portraying faint amusement.

"Why do you think I need to feel manlier? I'm pretty well-endowed, if that's what you're hinting at." He smirked, but couldn't help but be shaken a little by the expression on the man's face. Greg looked like a spider might when considering a fly caught in its web.

"No, I have no concern with that particular statistic. I was actually referring to your past. Are you sure you've never had an experience that could have... taken your control away? Nothing that could have proven how weak you really are? Nothing that could have left you sitting up in bed with silent tears running down your face because of how pathetic you really are?" Morgan found himself suddenly incapable of speaking. All he could do was listen, as if he were watching a plane crash but was unable to do anything to stop it. And Greg just smiled and leaned in to his face. "Tell me, Derek. What does it feel like to have someone you trust, who was like a father to you, take something like your virginity away from you?"

Morgan felt his self control wash away in a wave of fury. How. Dare. He. It took every ounce of his strength not to leap at Greg's face. It was only the thought of what he would do to Reid if he acted that kept him from pounding the living shit out of that asshole right then and there, consequences to his own person be damned. As it was, he couldn't hold himself back enough to prevent spitting in the bastard's face- or the hate filled words that followed. "Fuck you, you sick son of a bitch. You're just some twisted, fucked up piece of shit that gets off on torturing others. You're nothing more than a rabid dog- and that's all you are to your dear 'Miranda' as well. Her bitch. She uses you as a evil, demented little puppet. Because that's all you are. Just a stupid little puppet too weak to get away with it without someone intelligent and equally batshit insane telling you what to do."

He saw the first blow coming a second before it hit. As one, then another slammed into his body, he didn't even try fighting back. To himself, he said it was to not give the asshole the satisfaction of losing control and to prevent him from harming Reid in retaliation. But deep down, somewhere, that little voice told him he deserved the pain. Because no matter how much he worked out, no matter how many people he saved, and no matter how many doors he kicked down, he would still be inadequate. He would never be able to protect anyone properly. How could he, when he couldn't even protect himself? So even when the strikes slowed and stopped, ending with one last kick to the ribs before his tormentor left, hissing verbal abuse at his prone form as he marched to the door, he lay there and accepted the aching pain. He let himself fall into it, wrapped it around his mind like a safety blanket as he tried to escape the crevice he'd worked so hard to stitch up for all these years.

And as he lay there letting the physical sensations wash over him and distract from the black hole that had been punched through his chest, he couldn't help but smirk bitterly at the irony. The irony that the emotional chains he had wrapped around those feelings, the strongest chains he could fashion, could be torn away in an instant even by someone he hated; someone whose opinion meant less than nothing to him. All it took was a few words from the worst of sources to tear open the scars it had taken him years to form.

He really was pathetic.

* * *

Reid stared at himself in the mirror. He was, for once, at a loss for words. He'd scrubbed himself clean- despite the stinging, it had felt great, and washed his hair. The fresh, white bandage was wrapped tight around his chest, concealing the scar that he was both enthralled and disgusted by. He had also exchanged his old clothes for the ones Miranda had left out for him. They were... well, it was like she had taken his usual outfit and then edited it with her style. The narrow black dress pants were low-slung and silky, resting on his hips just a centimetre higher than his black briefs. On top, he had a just-barely-form-fitting maroon dress shirt with no sleeves and a silky black vest. The whole thing was finished off by two long black sleeves with holes for his thumbs that came up three quarters of the way up his arms and a black ribbon for his hair. He would have boycotted the last two items but for a note informing him that every piece of clothing must be worn.

All in all, he looked... good, in a dark, classy, almost vampiresque sort of way. He did not, however, look like himself. He sighed, tugging at the sleeves (gloves?) one last time before knocking on the door to be let out. He heard the lock turning, and the door opened. Miranda was standing on the far side of the room, holding the remote. _Automated- very intelligent. _The mechanisms necessary for the design fluttered through his head as he walked out and the psychopathic girl clasped her hands together and cooed.

"Oooh! Spencer, darling, do a little twirl for me." He obliged, feeling a little ridiculous as he turned around under the lights. "My, you do clean up nicely. And thank god you're out of those dreadful clothes. I would love to be able to say it was only the blood and grime that made them ugly. You look quite sexy all dressed up proper! And we even match!" She said, pointing out the matching colour scheme of their outfits. Reid felt a little flustered. He never really received many compliments on his looks before now.

"Well, I suppose if you say so I'm in no place to argue. I must leave it to your expert eye and hope that you speak not for courtesy's sake, for I must confess to a lack of aptitude in such matters as fashion." He gave her a smile and a short bob of the head, acknowledging her superiority on this subject.

"Oh, I have no authority in matters of fashion. Fashion is a concept of conformity. I have style. As John Fairchild said, '"Style" is an expression of individualism mixed with charisma. Fashion is something that comes after style.'"

"Well, I have claim to neither. I always rather appreciated Oscar Wilde's words on the subject: 'Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.'" Reid had often reminded himself of this particular quote during his high school years. It had been one of his favourites. Miranda smiled in appreciation.

"I would love to spend longer discussing this particular social phenomenon, but I'm afraid we have business to attend to. I dare to fancy you will find this particular business equally intellectually engaging, if not more so. Shall we sit, while I explain the fashion in which we shall pit ourselves against one another?" She gave a barely perceptible pause before the word 'fashion', as well as the equally subtle raising of an eyebrow that indicated the pun was very much intended. Reid responded wryly as they settled themselves facing one another on the floor.

"I have to confess, I am curious of the style the proceeding will take." They both smirked at the wordplay, before assuming impassive faces. They were, after all, solemn competitors. Not to mention enemies, as the pain all over Reid's body and the nasty glint in Miranda's eyes would attest to.

"This following... challenge... was originally intended to test our skills at reading each other. However, since I have extensively studied your past, it would be rendered unfair. So we shall proceed as such. I will make a statement. You will draw upon all of your experience as a profiler- not to mention all your other skills of observation and what you know of me, and say whether or not I'm lying. If you're right, then you will receive a point. If you're wrong, I get a point. The first one of us to reach five points wins. Simple enough?" She smiled, trying to read his face. He kept it impassive, despite his internal panic. He was a good profiler... but she was obviously a very good liar.

"Yes, I understand the concept. I have one question, however. What will be the result? That is to say, what is one the line?" He kept his face as closed and calm as possible, but his stomach was in knots. He was terrified that something was going to happen to Morgan if he didn't win this, for he strongly doubted he could. He had always been better in books and plans and such than in live action problems. Miranda, on the other hand, thrived in the spotlight and her pathological tendencies would only aid her here. She could obviously lie with a perfectly straight face. What sort of psychopath would she be if she couldn't? He would have to rely completely on his incomplete profile to guess, and that was not something he could find much confidence in.

* * *

**Yep, I officially suck. This chapter was not supposed to end here, but I'm having trouble writing right now due to the immence distractive power of the internet. Sorry, I guess. **

**Anyways, some people have demanded more information on the ever-elusive review button. I would love to tell you more about this terror, but I know very little about it. Though it lives with me, it speaks through a mechanical device and always wears a long cloak. It kinda looks like a jawa from Star Wars. Short and caped with glowing eyes. I don't even know if it's a guy or a girl. The one time I flipped up its hood, beneath were unspeakable horrors I barely glimpsed. However, it was enough for me never to want to do it again. This... being is my constant tormentor. Please, the only way you can help me is by just giving it what it wants. Just press the button! PLEASE! **

**My life is in your hands, as usual. **


	12. Chapter 12

**So I'm sorry I'm such an evil bitch about updating, it's sorta the way I roll. Distractedly. I'm one of those 'ooh, it's a shiny thing' people who got thought it was normal to get tested for ADD and talk to walls. And lamps. And thin air. **

**That aside, I will hereforeth teach you a valuable lesson: never, EVER rely on me. I hate people relying on me. I usually do the exact opposite of what they want just to piss them off. Yep, I'm going to hell on of these days. You don't even need to ask. Anyways, enjoy the story! **

**WARNING: swearing and torture and angst oh my! (please tell me you get that reference) **

**DISCLAIMER: duuhhhhh... don't own- blahblahblahblahblahblah**

* * *

Moments in our lives have a habit of washing away as quickly as a single drop in a rainstorm, falling all too fast, in total anonymity. They just race away, down the drain forgotten like a million before them. Unnoticed, never treasured, mundane. However, at least once in everybody's life one moment sticks like a heavy, laden drop of molten metal which burns its way through your skin and buries itself in your body, leaving a scar on your very soul. These are the moments that matter, for some reason or another, to you. These are the moments that do not fleetingly pass, but hang in the time they have like heavy, over-ripe fruit on the vine. These are the moments that change you. For better or for worse, for action or indifference, for forgiveness or grudge. These precious seconds bring you strength or weakness, depending on how you perceive them. Some are moments you'd do anything to change, that you either try to dig out of you push deep, deep down, where you can try to forget them. Some are the best moments, those you turn to when all else seems bleak. Some are simply changing, neither completely good or bad- moments when your life took a bend in another direction.

These are the moments that shape us and who we are.

At the particular moment that Reid met Miranda's eyes and prepared himself for the first challenge in their 'game', he was alone. At that particular moment, not a single other person in the world was thinking of him. Morgan, in a semi-conscious state of dull pain, wasn't thinking of anything at all. Hotch, Prentiss, Rossi and J.J. were all collapsed in hotel rooms, the little sleep they had time for marred only by vague threats of death that chased them even in their dreams. Garcia, to, had fallen into slumber in the arms of Kevin and hadn't a thought to spare the young genius. Even his very mother, Diana Reid was busy ensuring the government agents that she were sure were watching her were incapable of penetrating her bedroom. All over the world, those who he had aided with cases, those who his research had touched, those who he considered friends or acquaintances, those who'd at some point tormented him- they all had something other than him occupying their minds.

Though, of course, even with taking his great intelligence into account, there is no way in hell that Reid could know that. However, somehow he must have sensed it, because deep down inside of his skinny, beaten frame something clicked. As he met her cold, impassive eyes, he suddenly knew that this time he was on his own. He needed to do this by himself. And he would. This was his zone, his specialty. And this time, he would beat her. It was with this resolution that he wiped his face clean and waited, cross-legged on the floor, for test to begin. This would be one of the moments that would stick with him until he died. Finally, with his newfound resolution, the moment unfroze and the psychopath opened her mouth and the deadly game commenced.

"I am underage." Miranda's face was completely blank, except for a faint innocent smile. Reid knew that 18 was the age when you're legally an adult in America- except for a few cases with specific legal complications. He looked into her wide, pale eyes and thought of her dainty physique and teenager-esque mood swings. He had his answer.

"You're lying." Reid was fairly sure of his response. After all, she had her wisdom teeth- not to mention enough independence to pull this off. Though that alone wasn't much proof, when you added her self-confidence and obsession with cleanliness, it became clear. Actually, it wasn't the cleanliness that pointed it out. It was how she clearly coveted flawless things. The smooth tiles all perfectly arranged, the brand-new look to all her outfits, the cleaning of the bodies and the perfection of every crime. That was more like a woman clinging to the smooth beauty of youth than any girl. He would put her age at twenty, maybe.

Miranda nodded, and handed him one shiny, polished black pebble he supposed represented a point. Score one for him.

The next two rounds on the other hand, went the opposite direction. Clearly worried about him winning, Miranda's next statements were of a different type. First, she said her first pet's name was Pebbles, then that she had been to Maui. Both of these were centered not around whether they matched her profile, but merely at if he could tell when she was lying. The problem with this was that she could obviously lie with a perfectly straight face, and he couldn't do anything but guess. As it turns out, her first pet WAS named Pebbles, and she had never been to Maui. Too bad he hadn't said sighed, re-focused his mind (which he seemed to have to do less than usual when he had another genius to contend with, thank god), and prepared his mask for her next statement.

"We are underground." She said, confidence slipping past her mask despite herself. Reid, however, didn't even pause before answering.

"You're telling the truth."

She blinked and took a second too long to nod, revealing that she'd obviously had a different response prepared. It surprised Reid, to be honest. He had considered it rather noticeable that the facility they were being held in was underground. How else would she have the space in a location that she could easily access in her daily life? She would never have her prime source of entertainment stored somewhere she couldn't reach at a moment's notice- there was no way she trusted her butler enough to let him handle an emergency should one arise. And he most certainly couldn't see dramatic, artistic Miranda living in the country side. No, she would be fairly close to the city. Not to mention that the layout was not designed like a building, where all rooms and corridors fit together like puzzle pieces with no gaps in between. The floor plan was more like a tunnel system. In fact, it seemed rather familiar. A possibility flared to life, and he stored it away for further analysis later, focusing now on Miranda as she gave him another stone, tying up the score.

"I have been arrested."

Reid thought. She was certainly smart enough to avoid capture, but she was also the sort of girl who lived in a spotlight. She thrived in other's attention and would do anything to shock people- what better way to capture the gazes of others? She could quite possibly consider it a badge of honour. He pursed his lips for a fraction of a second, a motion that did not go unnoticed by Miranda, whose own mouth betrayed her with the faintest of smirks.

"You're lying."

Her lips drooped slightly and she gave a small huff as she passed him another pebble. She lost more and more control of her emotions the more he won. She was a narcissist, he knew, but it clearly went deeper than he'd suspected. She was continually underestimating him, and the more she lost the more she made it clear she didn't believe he could win. Her eyes had narrowed ever so slightly, betraying that while she loved a good competition, she was not used to losing. She had displayed a few of these tendencies when they had battled in their chess tournament, but she hadn't been frustrated when she lost. Maybe it wasn't losing that did it then- but having Reid pull apart her air of mystery. He came to the realisation that while Miranda herself had designed this game, she clearly didn't like the way he was seeing through her illusions and tricks. That he could see past the 'game' and into her. She probably remained an omnipotent force in the eyes of most of her 'guests', and it had gotten to the point that she had deluded herself to the point that she very nearly believed it. She'd gotten a god complex. And here was Reid, seeing through her. No wonder she was getting upset. She'd most likely gone a long time since someone had seen through her manipulations. It didn't surprise him the next question was less personal.

"My butler is in the F.B.I.'s database."

That one wasn't hard, and she knew it too. He could see she'd spat it out at the last minute instead of the statement she'd planned on saying. It was pretty clear that Greg couldn't control himself without her helping him, and there was no doubt that he'd done time. Actually, Reid would bet a large amount of money that he'd probably gotten off on an insanity plea on one violent offence or another, and had at at least one point in his life been put in an institution for the criminally insane.

"You're telling the truth." She passed him another of the black stones. Now he had four, and only needed one more. She still only had two. Despite this, he felt cold fingers of dread inside his ribcage. It was extremely unlikely that she would make the same mistake twice. The next statement, or statements, would not be easy to guess by any stretch of the imagination. He wetted his lips in anticipation.

"My name is Miranda."

For the first fraction of a second after she spoke, Reid was relieved. At least this was something he could profile, not a random piece of information he would have to guess at. Then the dilemma sprung to mind, and he realised that this was no boon. For it could be either truth or lie. His great brain, for all its genius and efficiency, could not decide between the two arguments that presented themselves along with the issue. Decisiveness had always been one of his weakest points, as a result not only of his generally low self-confidence, but because of the very problem that faced him now. He could see, in an instant, all the pros and cons to all sides of any conflict he was faced with. This often made it very hard to pick one or the other. He usually left decision making to those with more natural leadership abilities. Reid was anything but an alpha, and now he was faced with the disadvantage this left him at.

The basic problem, in its simplest form, was the conflict between Miranda's egotism and intellect. On one hand, she chronically overestimated her own abilities. She constantly made it very clear she thought of herself as higher, better than her fellows. She, as most classic criminal narcissists would, probably thought that there was no way in hell that any of her victims could escape her clutches. And why should she? She had them totally under her control in an unknown location with nothing they could use to escape or get help. So she had no reason NOT to tell them her real name. Also, her narcissistic tendencies meant that she would want them to know her name, her real name.

On the other hand, she was also quite obviously intelligent. Extremely, extremely intelligent. And as an organised killer, she would not be taking any risks. What with her distinctive appearance, if her victims escaped with both her description and her name (even her first or middle) it would be a matter of time before they found her. Not to mention the amount of time she spent holding her 'guests' prisoner, each second of which added to the risk of them escaping, figuring out a way past her system, some flaw she'd overlooked. Adding to that the fact that she was holding two elite FBI officers with more specialised training and experience than any other team in the world in dealing with her type of offender... that was not the sort of risk that an unsub with her level of intelligence would take.

This was a conflict between her delusional psychosis and her genius. Between her egocentric needs and perverse desires and her perfectly planned and executed crimes. Between his observations of charismatic, insane manipulation seen in many a cult leader and the obsessive perfection and cleanliness of each and every crime that rivalled that of the most organised killers he'd ever studied- many of whom remained uncaught. And he, for all his genius, couldn't make such a crucial decision.

He breathed in once, trying to slow his racing thoughts. He just needed to choose. Miranda (if that was her name) coughed politely, suggesting in the most civilised of fashions that he hurry up. Reid suddenly felt his mouth very, very dry as he opened his mouth and gave his final answer, one he was completely unsure of.

"You're... you're lying." The stutter he used to have when he was younger manifested itself in the faintest of tremors in his voice as he replied. In the end 'Miranda' was a genius, and in his experience the intelligent choice always won. Of course, he wasn't a delusional psychopath, but all the same. The risk was just too great.

She cracked a small, evil smile and took out another pebble. She paused, holding it aloft in her hand for a dramatic second, before slowly placing it in her own pile.

_Shit. _Reid didn't often indulge in foul language, even in his own head, but he realised as soon as it was over his own mistake. He had bet on a delusional, egotistical, sadistic, evil, manipulating, insane, mass-murdering, prolific, psychopathic serial killer making the rational decision. Now why on Earth would he do that? Despite this, he felt a stab of hope. Miranda wouldn't lie at this game, he knew that much, and that meant he did know one of her names. If they managed to find a way to get a message out, this could be invaluable information. And it was still four to three for him. If Reid could get this next one right, he still won. Just as long as he didn't get the next two wrong, she would lose. And he would be safe.

Miranda reset her intent filled, yet totally expressionless face. She was obviously ready to see how this played out as she opened her mouth and gave her challenge.

"I have actually, myself, killed one of our guests."

Her pale eyes gazed impassively into Reid's, and for a second, he felt his brain stall as Miranda stared at him. She had a very cold, very evil, and extremely terrifying edge to her expression. He was all at once very, very aware that he was staring into the eyes of a psychopath, and he couldn't say he appreciated the notion as much as his curiosity as an intellectual had prompted him to at the beginning of this whole ordeal.

Reid considered the statement. If she had said that she had killed someone, he would have not halted in saying she was telling the truth. There was no way she could have evolved this far without having given into her own sadistic urges at least once. However, she had said one of their guests, which clearly referred to the victims of her and Greg's serial killing rampage that the team had been called out to study. And from what he had seen of the records (which was pretty much all the documents pertaining to the case), none had exhibited quite the… artistry, if he could call it that, of the wound on his chest. In fact, would it not be the most perfect of crimes, to be a serial killer, and yet never have laid a finger on any of the murdered? It was a remarkable idea, and he was sure it would appeal to Miranda's dramatic side. He thought back to all he had observed of her neurotic behaviors before and after his capture. She was obviously paranoid about being caught- she clearly valued her freedom greatly- and it would match perfectly with the masterful work on the detail of each and every crime. The perfect serial killer would not be a killer at all. She would call it genius.

Then he remembered Jennifer Shirley. The young woman from one of the more recent cases. She had been found with a pentagram drawn around her, and possibly the worst overkill Reid had ever been exposed to in his extensive career of studying sickos and madmen. She had also been sexually assaulted, and had light blonde hair and a slim figure. It was quite possible that the overkill, the endless torture and the most sadistic of slow deaths, had been ordered by Miranda to continue to confuse the Seattle PD. Or maybe he was giving her too much credit. She was, after all, a psychopathic, sadistic, narcissist. And it was also possible that she had seen Jennifer as a weaker version of herself and wanted to trim the fat, so to speak. Not to mention that he severely doubted that Greg had nearly enough control to keep the torture going that long. The man was a sadist, no doubt, but he was not exactly prolific… he was a disorganized killer if he'd ever seen one, and would probably indulge in the high of the final kill far before she died any sort of slow, drawn out death. Not to mention that many of the wounds had been healed so as to draw out the final moments the maximum length. This looked very much like a sadist with a god-complex testing all their limits. He had already bet wrong once on Miranda keeping control. He needed to look at her less as a fellow genius, but face up to the fact that he was locked in a room with a serial killer. He couldn't continue to hide behind her façade of breed and dignified class. Slowly, he forced himself to look at the insanity in her eyes. His breath caught in his throat as her pale shark's eyes stared back into his own. She was not a human as he was. She was... she was Miranda. And he had his answer.

"You're lying." He tried to hide that his hands were trembling and he swallowed once again.

Slowly, surely, Miranda cracked a slow smile. She reached into her dress and removed a rock.

Which she placed in a pile.

His pile.

He has won the game. He had beat Miranda. He had come in first. He released a pent up breath and faced Miranda, who, quite on impulse reached out and enveloped him in her arms. Yes, that's right. She gave him a hug. He sort of sat there, frozen, as she squeezed him one last time before releasing her grip and leaving him watching her in confusion. She bunched up her voluminous cape and tapped him on the nose, grinning.

"Oh, Spency, darling, I simply **knew **you could do it. You even beat me by two! I am suitably impressed with you- despite the fact that I really dislike loosing, and that I wanted to dig into that gorgeous body of yours one more time…" Here she scrunched up her nose and narrowed her eyes at him in a strangely flirtatious way. "You don't have to worry about anything. I will send Greg with you, and when you are returned to your cell he'll give you a few minutes to catch up and such, then he'll come pick up Derek to get all cleaned up. I'll give him all the bandages he could ever need, and I'll let you help him put them on."

Reid cleared his dry throat. Damn her, she kept messing with him. Every time he thought he had her figured out, she would make him think something else. She wasn't like a regular un-sub. "Well, I offer you my most courteous thanks. It is a relief that my most worthy of opponents chooses not to resent my victory, despite my insistence it is merely a fluke. I remain your humble rival."

She offered him her hand elegantly, and he brushed it against his lips in the politest of fashions before she rose, leaving him with her parting words. "Ever the gentleman. You're too modest, however. Your conquest is no bout of chance. I doubt even the best of profilers could get into my head, to coin a phrase, the way you did just now. No, only a fellow genius could understand me that way. I am proud to compete with you." And with that, and the flutter of a smile, she was off.

Soon Reid was picked up by Greg. He, however, hardly registered his presence. He was lost in his own head. Her parting words continued to haunt him. _What could she have meant by my 'understanding' her? And she referred to me as her fellow. But we are NOTHING alike. Or are me? We share interests and some opinions and there are very few people out there with my level of intelligence- but no. We are most certainly not similar. Remember, she's a psychopath. She was probably purposefully attempting to cause me these thoughts. It's all her deceiving me again. She gets off on pain, physical and mental. On the other hand… this wouldn't be the first time I've sympathized more with the un-sub than the police or the victims. But no, that's entirely separate. But I've been slipping lately. My state of mind hasn't exactly been optimal. The closest I've come to talking about it with anyone was when Morgan tried to confront me earlier… and when Miranda and I talked previously. That was dangerous, I need not give her fuel to burn me with. Damn it, if I've gotten to the point that I can't differentiate between friend and enemy… I knew I was slipping, but… _

_Am I going crazy? Am I to end up like my mother?_

* * *

Hotch lurched awake, his body knifing upwards as if to physically wrench himself free from nightmare that seemed all too real, all too tangible. He stayed there, sitting upright in bed amongst the messy sheets for several seconds, just waiting for his racing heart to calm. His body was covered in a sheen of sweat that quickly turned cold and clammy on his skin. After he was sure that the he was no longer caught in the dark, tangled remains of the quickly-fading dream, he groaned and wiped his hand across his creased forehead. He leaned over the peer at the glowing red numbers on his digital alarm clock. 5:52. He sighed and laid back onto his hotel bed, giving the errant blankets a half-hearted tug in hopes of better coverage. No such luck. He still had thirty-eight minutes until he was supposed to wake up, and he sincerely doubted he'd get any sleep during that time.

Lying there, staring up at the blank hotel ceiling, Hotch wondered what had happened to him. His firm, unemotional persona was not merely a mask, but a manifestation of how he handled his problems. He knew he was the king of bottling things up- and though he wasn't proud of it, it was how he did things. Usually he dealt with these sorts of situations by keeping as rational as possible and devoting all of his time to solving them. He figured out how to fix the problem the way that would result in the minimum lost life possible, and waited until it was all over to turn his attention to his own emotions. After Haley, he had become even more strict about ensuring the quickest and most efficient route to stopping serial killers before they could do any more damage. Though his team had eventually gotten him to loosen up a bit at work, he still strongly believed in keeping his more… human side for his home life. But this case… he hadn't gotten nightmares in a long time. Hotch knew that if anything happened to Reid or Morgan, he would hold himself personally accountable. His worry over their well-being was clearly wreaking havoc on his own state of mind. He needed to close this case fast, with minimum collateral, and get his team home and safe. That was the way he did things. However, this time, he wasn't sure if he could.

He sighed again and rolled over onto his side, looking at the numbers change torturously slowly. He hated lying here, knowing the people who placed their lives in his hands every day were in danger and he couldn't change it. He just needed to wait for his alarm. If he didn't sleep, it would only impede his judgment further and risk more problems in the future. He couldn't help but notice his cell phone lying on the bed side table. Mentally slapping his hand down before he could reach for it (remembering what Rossi always said about his workaholic tendencies), he turned back over and stared firmly back at the ceiling, giving it his best 'Aaron Hotchner death glare'.

Eventually he must have fallen back into some sort of sleep, because all of a sudden he was jerked back awake by the sound of his shrieking alarm. Fumbling around until it shut up, he stumbled out of bed, showered and got dressed. It was only when brushing his teeth (even though he and the rest of the team were meeting up for a very early breakfast soon) that he glanced at his phone and saw the message from Garcia. At first, the name of the leak seemed unfamiliar to him. Then he looked at it again, and it struck him. Quickly, he washed out his mouth and grabbed his jacket as he all but flew out the door, dialing a number as he did so.

"Prentiss? Have you seen Garcia's email yet?"

"Good. Did you notice the name?"

"Yes, I do think it could be. We'll talk further when we meet up with the team."

Hanging up tersely, he jabbed the down button outside the elevator impatiently. Someone had some explaining to do, and Hotch was going to make personally sure that said explaining was done. And fast.

* * *

**Okay guys... winces... I'm sorry. I'm having a complicated summer, and I apologise for both how late and how little happened in this chapter. Next one will be extra long and about the team and will have a lot in it, you have my most solemn word. Unfortuanately, that one will probably be really late as well. I have to go away to where there is not internet connection for a bit, and writing is gonna be a pain in the petush. **

**Anyways, I know most of you fabulous readers out there probably want to kill me out there- and you're not alone. The review button is, as I type this, hissing at me and jabbing me with a small stick while it circles around me making threatening clicking noises. Don't even ask me how it does all that at once, I'm not sure myself. It's pretty scary though, take my word for it. You see, when I don't write the number of reviews sugnificantly decreases... and that does not make it happy. AT ALL. So once again, it asks me to remind you that if there's no reviews, it will... *gulps*... kill me slowly. And that means no more sotry. Once again, I leave my life in you hands. Do with it what you will. *dramatic swooning***


	13. Chapter 13

**I have fallen totally in love with a book. Like, this is the best book I've read in a long time. It's not really relevant at all to MY story, but if you love great writing, dark plots, the best characters and a dose of tragic romance its a must read. It's called The Angel's Game, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. It is pretty dark, but that just makes it all the better. Check it out. **

**I know I haven't updated in forever, and I'm sorry... I was out of country/ interent range, and then camping, and then had trouble with inspiration, and then procrastinated.**

**WARNING: All my favorite things: Angst, torture, angst, psychopaths, angst, violence, angst. And swearing. My, do I ever love a well-placed swear. **

**DISCLAIMER: It was once fortold that I would never own Criminal Minds. I choose to be cynical, but so far it seems the forces of destiny are winning...**

* * *

Emily sat at a table in the darkest, most secluded corner of the cafe where she was meeting her team for an early breakfast. J.J. was with her, but neither of the women spoke as they waited for Rossi and Hotch to appear. After the email Hotch had sent, Prentiss was far too tense and wrapped up in her own thoughts to entertain the notion of casual conversation, and there was no point talking of the case until the other two were here. Her foot tapped impatiently as she waited. There were only a few other patrons, commuters stopping in for a coffee before the next hectic day. She couldn't help but scan for security risks- something about this whole case was reminding her of her Interpol days.

It seemed like years later that Hotch marched into the cafe, low brow scrunched in a familiar dark line that meant he was thinking hard. The young, chirpy woman working at the counter visibly quailed at the look he gave her when she asked if she could help him. Under normal circumstances Prentiss would have bit back a laugh, but she was too tightly wound to even think of the funny side now. He sat down and they exchanged nods of greeting. They only had to wait a few more minutes before Rossi came in, calm and composed as usual. He greeted cashier and ordered his coffee before sitting down. The woman was all too obviously relieved by his kind, easy presence after Hotch's... less than calming arrival. He sat down and they all said their hellos before Hotch broke the loaded moment.

"I presume by now you have all read Garcia's email with the name and picture of the person responsible for the leak." They all nodded.

"I only got a chance to glance at it." Admitted Rossi, "Was I supposed to come to any conclusion?" J.J. quickly said that she too hadn't seen anything noteworthy about the name. Prentiss and Hotch looked at each other. Prentiss took pity on the other two, who were looking at them in confusion.

"Alexander Peter Bloom-May. Thirty-six years old last May. Spotty employment record. Now, it's a bit of a stretch, but look at the name. Remind you of anyone?" The picture showed a man with an unshaved beard and spiky hair, looking up at the camera with a faintly confused expression on his face. "Bloom. As in our ever so helpful friend back at the station." Hotch nodded and picked up where she left off.

"I had Garcia do a check on the way here, and they're step-brothers. I think it's quite obvious that Bloom was the one who leaked the info. The question is why."

"He has been the main voice in support of us before and since we came." Rossi had a faint frown on his face as he spoke pensively. "Why is he undermining us this way? If it gets out that he directly opposed us, we'll lose the belief of most of the officers. Worst case scenario, the rest will stop following our directions. If he wanted us to come, why would he do that?"

"We've been getting along quite well, but I did feel like he was a bit quiet when we spoke of the importance of not giving into the un-sub's wish for media attention." J.J. said. "He could have simply disagreed with our tactics, but knowing the effect it could have if he spoke up openly, took the matter into his own hands. Or maybe he spilt a little too much to his step-brother and didn't realise that he would act on it." The others could see she clearly didn't want to assume the worst of an ally before exhausting all other possibilities. She had a point, but it wouldn't do to be naive about it. Rossi was inclined to agree with her on that they shouldn't jump to the worst conclusion strait away.

"We need to know more about their relationship. It's plain to me that an intelligent man like Bloom would see that putting anything about Reid and Morgan online would severely injure their chances of escaping alive. And no matter what his intention, I can't see him doing anything to purposely harm any of our agents. This could be a matter of revenge- or maybe Alexander overheard something and thought it would get his recognition on the internet. He doesn't seem like a very rational- or successful. He could resent his better-off step brother." Rossi mused. The others nodded, and there was a brief pause before Prentiss opened her mouth, speaking slowly and uncharacteristically unsure of herself.

"There is one other option..." She waited until the others were all looking at her in curiosity before continuing. "We did say that the un-sub was possibly a member of the police force. It would give him optimal exposure to the sensitive material that would allow his to pull off the kidnappings of the two police officers and Reid and Morgan. We don't know much about the un-sub, but what we do know is that he is highly intelligent, desperate for attention and excitement, most likely wealthy and charismatic. If Bloom were our un-sub, it would stand to reason that he would support our coming. It's clear that he has a great amount of power over the police station- except McAllen, of course- and he could carry on killing for as long as he wanted without any suspicion. Unless he did something stupid, he could go on forever. We know the un-sub doesn't just get off on the torture, but on the challenge. We make it more fun. Not to mention he would be perfectly capable of luring Reid and Morgan away."

She paused, and they all looked at her for a moment. J.J. looked unhappy, but Rossi and Hotch looked like they would consider it a possibility. Hotch gave her a little nod, as if telling her to go on. _Thank god. _Prentiss thought. _At least Hotch has my back. _

"The issue is that he has been heavily involved in work this whole time, and I doubt he could overpower Morgan. I don't think he would risk taking on two highly trained FBI agents by himself. But what if he's not alone? He and his step-brother have very few surviving relatives, and they apparently live a few blocks from each other. Look at this man, he can't hold down a job for more than a few months, he's had several minor arrests- I would bet a lot of money Bloom is the one paying his bills. But he is very physically fit. They would make an ideal killing team. Bloom has the info and the brains, and Alexander the muscle and opportunity. I don't know about you guys, but I've never been able to get a handle on Bloom. For all we know, he could well be a high-functioning psychopath. I'm not sure at all this is the truth, but it's a possibility."

Prentiss lapsed into silence, waiting for a reaction. Rossi spoke first.

"I hate suspecting a fellow law-enforcer as much as any other, especially one as helpful as Bloom has been. We need to handle this with the utmost discretion- we have no proof of anything, and it's much more likely there's a simpler explanation. However, it is possible, and for that reason, I say we investigate a bit before doing anything drastic. It's not like we have any other leads. This could just be the break we've been waiting for." Hotch nodded in agreement, and looked at J.J. for her thoughts. She looked a little disconcerted by the sudden shift in their assumptions about the incident, but was clearly trying to handle it with her usual professionalism.

"Well... We can't overlook anything with Morgan and Reid involved, but no matter our suspicions we need to speak with Bloom before this happens again. If it was a simple mistake, then he can avoid a reprise, and if he's the un-sub, it'll let him know he won't be able to evade us that easily. We cannot risk this getting out before absolutely necessary. This will create a HUGE media storm, and that will hinder us far more than helping us. There's one thing I know, it's that this un-sub will not be caught by the media until we know for absolute sure what to look for. At this stage, all it would serve to do is panic the entire city. And since no new victims will be taken until they're... finished with..." She couldn't finish her sentence, and quickly moved on. "Anyways, at this stage, alerting the media is the worst thing that could happen, especially if it comes from anyone other than us. We need to make stopping this happening again our first priority, and to do that, we have to talk to Bloom."

"You're right." Hotch said. "We can't risk this. J.J., you will talk to Bloom. Keep it casual, make sure he believes that we do not suspect him; we just want to make sure he gets a handle on his step-brother. Be sympathetic. Tell us what he says. Rossi, you bring the issue to Delaire. She'll want to know about it, but tell her the bare minimum. It's clear that she trusts Bloom implicitly, and will protect him from any suspicion. We can't lose her support by accusing him of anything with no proof besides speculation. Meanwhile, Prentiss and I will seek help from the only other person with the authority to stand up to Bloom." They all looked at each other, figuring out who he meant. When they realised, they all groaned slightly.

"I'm sure we don't need his support to handle this-" J.J. began, with distaste in her voice.

"Yes, we do." Hotch interrupted. "McAllen is the only one who can help us with information we will require without any loyalty to Bloom. Whether we like him or not has nothing to do with it. We need someone to side with us- and he's our only option."

As he said it, Prentiss wondered whether Hotch was trying to convince them or himself.

* * *

"Okay, tell me what this is about." McAllen's angry voice assaulted Hotch's ears as he finished closing the blinds in the BAU's operations room and sat down.

The tall blond man was sitting opposite Prentiss and himself, having been pulled aside as gracefully as they could manage. Hotch started talking before the man got frustrated. He briefly outlined the situation, telling of the security breach and their findings, including their suspicions of foul play, but not their more extreme theory. Better omit that for now, and ease him in. In his credit, McAllen was quiet while he spoke and clearly paid attention to his every word, rubbing his chiselled jaw as he absorbed the information. When Hotch finished, he was silent for a few more minutes.

"So you've come to me, while leaving my superior out of it for the most part?" Hotch paused a moment before nodding in response. McAllen continued in a calm voice.

"Unless you are totally incompetent in the art of office politics, and I sincerely doubt you are, I find it very hard to believe you would do that merely because my colleague opposed your advice. The situation around here is far too volatile for you to risk Delaire's support by going behind her back for something like this unless you have other suspicions. What is this really about?" Hotch and Prentiss looked at each other. They had been planning on keeping their other thoughts to themselves until later- but they hadn't been planning on McAllen calling them out like that. Prentiss spoke up- it was her theory, after all.

"We know this is going to be hard to consider, and rest assured this is only vague suspicions, and idle thoughts. However, we do need to consider every option on a case like this, and-"

"Cut out the politically correct bullshit. I don't have a good temper, and I have my doubts about your methods, but I'm not stupid- and I don't believe you are either. Just tell me what you think." His words were harsh, but his tone was the calmest they'd heard from him yet. _Maybe I've underestimated him. _Hotch had a feeling, for the first time, that McAllen might actually be an asset as opposed to an obstacle. Prentiss continued, but now her tone was more businesslike. She'd clearly had the same thought he had.

She gave her reasoning, and outlined their logic and the decision they had ended up coming to. When she'd finished, all remaining traces of anger had left the man's face. They had been replaced with a pensive frown. _Thank god, _Hotch thought, _he's considering it. Good. We could be finally getting somewhere on this case. _

"Well, I'll give you one thing, you guys are not afraid to think outside the box." McAllen said. "When you line it all up like that, I can't deny that it all sounds pretty damn incriminating. Look, I don't like Bloom- I think he's a cunning, manipulative little shit, and that's no secret. But even l have a hard time seeing someone I've worked with for that long being a serial killer. I know that's what everyone says, but I still find it a little implausible. And if I can't see it, then how do you expect anyone else to?"

"We don't, that's the simple truth to it." Hotch said. "That's why we're doing this. But we can't just dismiss the first concrete suspicion we've had because it wouldn't go over well- not with my agent's lives on the line. We need more information. And if we find anything, we're going to need your support to give us any credence." The implied question was there: can we count on your support? There was a tense moment before McAllen answered.

"This could be my worst career move ever, you know that?" He rubbed his eyes, sighed, and continued. "But I couldn't live with myself if I didn't help and let a killer possibly continue taking innocent lives. You have my support. But I don't see how I can help you. I don't know much about Bloom. No one really does, past the basics. He keeps himself pretty hidden behind his shields. I bet you could speak to every person who considers him a friend, or thinks he trusts them, and not one of them would be able to tell you anything helpful about his personality or life. I can't help you with anything psychological. No one really knows how he thinks. All I know is that he's damn smart, and if he is a killer, you wouldn't get it out of him."

"Do you know anything at all about his step-brother?" Prentiss asked. "Anything at all is useful. He must have mentioned him at least once."

"I've never heard Bloom talk about him to anyone, but he has a picture of him on his desk. I think they're close. A few times I've seen his waiting for Bloom outside the station, like a dog waiting for its master. Oh, and he phoned once at work. I didn't hear what they said, but that was the closest to anger or panic I've ever seen Bloom. After he hung up, he automatically regained his composure and asked for the rest of the day off. He got it, of course, but we were right in the middle of a really important case. And Bloom never misses important cases."

"When you saw Alexander outside, how was he acting? How did Bloom react to him?"

"He looked uncomfortable- he was pacing and giving everyone these weird looks. He freaked out a few of the rookies, actually. But the second Bloom came out, he seemed sort of... relieved. I don't know how to describe it. It was like he'd just found the solution to some problem. Bloom treated him like a dog to be honest. Like a faithful puppy that was a mild distraction from his work day."

"That makes it pretty unlikely that his brother would have acted out of any ill-will towards Bloom. You've heard nothing of any sort of falling out between them?" Prentiss was now leaning forward despite herself. McAllen was unwittingly describing a perfect example of a dominant-submissive relationship. The sort very common in serial killing duos.

"If there was any, I haven't noticed any indication of it." He shifted his weight in his chair, and continued talking. "That's all I can tell you about them- but if you want my advice, having worked with Bloom for a several years now, I'd tell you that you aren't going to be able to crack him. He's got too much standing with the officers, not to mention he's too smart to admit to anything. He knows that you have nothing on him. If you're going to find anything, you're going to get it from the brother. What you really need is a search warrant, but you'll never get that with what you have."

"But how can we get to his brother without revealing our suspicions? We need him in an interrogation room- and for that we need proof, and Delaire's support- without that, we'll be off this case in seconds, agents involved or not." Prentiss said with frustration clear in her voice. Hotch was surprised how much help McAllen was being. He sincerely hoped that the man was not screwing around with them, and was honestly trying to help. He doubted that he would hinder them, and all Hotch's extensive experience with behavioural analysis told him that the man was genuine. But only time would tell.

"But what about the security breach?" McAllen said thoughtfully.

"What about it?" Prentiss responded.

"He had in his possession knowledge that was confidential and abused that information, in doing so possibly endangering the lives of two agents of the FBI. I'd say that's enough to bring him in for questioning. You don't have to charge him for twenty-four hours, and I bet you can get Delaire's support easily as well- just say you need to check his story against Bloom's to ensure that he's not missing anything. I bet if you try really hard, you can even lull them into a false enough sense of security that he will waive his right to a lawyer. Then you just have to ask around about his intentions. I'm sure Bloom will have told him what to say, but without him there to help him, I'd bet that you can crack him open like an egg."

As much as Hotch wanted to consult with his team, and devise a plan of attack with them, he couldn't deny that it was probably the best course of action. He bit his lip and thought for a moment. The man had openly opposed the from the start, and his quick temper had been a near constant obstacle- but now that they were working together, he was beginning to have a measure of respect for him. Not to mention, he controlled a large portion of the police force, if not by hierarchy, but by loyalty. If they lost the support of those who followed Bloom by getting to the bottom of this, then it wouldn't hurt to have a few good points with McAllen. He concluded his thoughts quickly, and knowing that J.J. and maybe even Rossi would be unhappy with his decision, looked at the blonde man and spoke.

"I'd like to have you in our next team meeting. We'll propose your plan of action, and I'd like you to hear what the other members of my team think. Meet us in our room at eleven fifteen." He said, glancing at the clock on the wall. He got up to leave, but before he could, McAllen spoke one last time.

"I'm siding with you on this, because I think you may be onto something. But don't fool yourselves- I still don't believe that your _psychology_ is an efficient way of catching criminals. I'm with you against Bloom, but don't think that this means you have my support in the rest of the case. In my experience, the only thing that gets results is focus, determination and science- and what you're doing is just distracting us from real, hard leads." He gaze was hard, and his eyes stone cold. Hotch returned his stare with one that was equally icy, before giving him a small nod and responding as he swooped out.

"We wouldn't expect anything else."

* * *

J.J. internally glowered as she sat at the BAU's table. _What the hell was McAllen doing here? _She didn't understand why they had to co-operate with him when all he'd done over the rest of the case was cause problems for the team. It wasn't that there was anything specific she didn't like about him, but what he stood for: everybody who was causing problems for the BAU. By hindering the team, they were hindering the safety of her teammates. And J.J. would never, EVER forgive anyone who was responsible for hurting those she loved. While she couldn't deny his idea was pretty much the only way of getting to the bottom of the leak, she couldn't bring herself to be happy about his continued presence within what was left of the team.

"J.J.?" She heard Hotch's voice, and mentally jumped. _Whoops. Spacing out... Crap. _

"Uh- Yes. Bloom reacted pretty much as anticipated. His story is that his half-brother was at his apartment last night, and he caught him looking through his case files. He claims Alexander has always been a bit of an air-head, and probably didn't think before acting. He apologised several times, and said he'd talk to him. He also asked me if we could give him a pass this once, and that he'd talk with him. I said I'd see, but it wasn't my call. I made a point of saying we didn't blame him, as you asked."

"What do you think?" J.J. paused for a moment before answering his question. She pursued her lips ever so slightly before replying- she hated the feeling of having to admit she was wrong, even if it was only really to herself.

"I don't buy it. He seemed too ready with his excuse. If you ask me, his response was too rehearsed. He also made an obvious effort to create an air of intimacy with me, emphasizing that we were working together and acting almost like we were friends. It could just be me, but it felt like he was trying to manipulate me." She leaned back in her chair, clicking her pen out of habit. The more time she spent at this police station, the less she liked it. It seemed like everyone was out to get her.

Hotch nodded in agreement to her deductions, then turned to Rossi.

"How did it go with Delaire?"

"She was quick to agree with the possibility that it was a complete accident, and that Bloom had nothing to do with it the moment I mentioned it. We won't get any help from her if we want to lay a finger on Bloom- it's obvious she trusts him too much to be open-minded about this. However, she was ready to crucify Alexander. She was jumping at the bit to blame the only other person apart from Bloom. If we want to take him in, she'll be more than happy to back us up. That being said, we're going to have to do this fast, before she can consider it a conspiracy when we do. If she thinks we went behind her back, we're in deep shit. Pardon my French."

Hotch turned to Garcia, who was listening in via the web cam on Prentiss' laptop.

"What do we know about this guy?" The technical goddess was looking a lot better than last time they'd talked, and despite slightly spiky hair was her usual bright and sparkly self.

"Oh mighty leader, the question is what don't we know about him? He's your typical slightly unstable high-school dropout. It seems like the only reason he's not on the street is his half-brother. Their only remaining family is spread out over the country, and don't seem to have much contact with either of them. Their parents married when Bloom was ten, and they died in an explosion three years later- sad stuff. Looks like it was a meth lab. They were looked after by their uncle, but he was shot in a gang shooting a year later, so they were put in foster care. They got separated and it looks like Alexander got the worst of it, moved around a lot. When Bloom got out, he got his brother living with him while he went to college on a scholarship and from there on out was the usual success story. His brother not so much. A few minor arrests, but no convictions and many failed jobs. They now live about a block away from each other, as you know. It looks like they're really close. It seems like Bloom's one of the only personal contacts Alexander has. He's completely dependent."

As Garcia finished her lightning-fast spiel, McAllen was staring at her with his mouth open. Surprisingly, when she asked if they had any questions, he was the only one to open his mouth.

"Yeah, I do. Is this legal? How do you know that much?" The BAU all winced slightly, each one of them subconsciously readying themselves for the familiar song and dance. Even Hotch's mask cracked slightly as he responded.

"Not strictly- but people's lives are on the line. My agent's lives, to be precise. Is this going to be a problem?" He gave McAllen a signature glare. The blond, on the other hand, cracked a small smile.

"No, I get it. You know, I think I could get used to working with you."

"Well, now that that's settled, I think it's pretty plain that this is not some attack from May on Bloom." Prentiss said, interrupting the moment. "If this was caused by conflict between them, I doubt Bloom would be so quick to rise to his brother's defence. Besides, he's the older one of them and the one that Alexander relies on. With the behaviour displayed between them added to that, it's clear Bloom is the dominant in the relationship. Everything we know points to the submissive not acting out like this in a way that could clearly damage the other randomly. I find it hard to believe that he would just post that online without thinking of what it could do to his brother's career. I don't know his intention, but Bloom had to have been behind this."

"We should act today, before they get a chance to properly collaborate their stories." Rossi said. Hotch nodded.

"I agree. We need to take Alexander in now. McAllen, I know your men will ask questions about you talking with us. Feel free to tell them we forced you, or whatever you feel necessary to keep their allegiance. I need a few uniforms to escort Prentiss to take him in. In the meantime, Rossi, report to Delaire. Tell her we want to investigate and ensure this won't happen again. J.J.- tell Bloom, but make as sure as you can he doesn't think we suspect him. At the same time, try to detain him from phoning his brother before we get there. I'll stay here and organise things. Go."

They all rose to their feet and left to do their assigned jobs. J.J. was not looking forwards to keeping Bloom occupied. He was very intelligent, and she wasn't sure how long she could engage him in conversation without raising his suspicions. She hated getting this task. It had gone wrong to many times for her to feel at all confident doing it. None the less, duty called. And it was her job, after all.

* * *

Greg couldn't help but let his well-practiced mask slip as he heard the news. **She **was going to find this very amusing. **She **might even award him for it! He loved it when **She **was happy. It made him ecstatic with joy. When **She **was pleased, as was he. And nothing pleased **Her** like a good game. The opposing player had made a very definite move. And that opened them up to a whole range of new possibilities. **She **would delight in choosing how they would respond.

And, as usual, Greg would delight in carrying out **Her** decision.

* * *

Reid was tired of all this, so very, very tired. When he had come back from Miranda's room, Morgan was hunched over and in pain. He'd pulled his usual tough guy routine, but Reid could see that beneath his armour of swagger and teasing, he was more than just physically injured. As promised, Morgan got cleaned up and a new set of clothes. Reid couldn't help but notice that while he was stuck with a... well, an outfit that wouldn't have looked out of place on a comic book villain (or a gothic, high-class boy toy, as Morgan said), the other agent had a plain black t-shirt and pants. Of course, he felt guilty for worrying about fashion when he saw the bruises on his partner's torso. Actually, it took a couple hours of Morgan cracking up over what she made him wear before he was sure he was okay. The atmosphere had grown grim, again, as their twelve hours ticked by and they became more and more aware of the little time they had before their captors would return and they would have to face them once more.

Out of some sort of strange, unspoken peace treaty, Reid didn't ask about what Greg had said to Morgan while he'd been with Miranda, and Morgan held off the questioning about what had been bothering Reid before they were taken. It was one of those situations where neither wanted to have to deal with their own issues, so they distracted themselves with everything else. They even tried to get some sleep, though they both utterly failed. Soon though, they wound up sitting totally tense and waiting for the door to open. It was almost a relief when they heard the now familiar heavy clunking of bolts.

"Hello, my darling Spencer. I must say I much prefer to find you in your current attire than those dreary old clothes you had on previously. And you too, of course, Derek." As usual, she mentioned Morgan as a side note. Reid could practically hear his teeth grinding together as she spoke. He could tell he was begging for a chance to get his vengeance on the two of them, and his expression only darkened as Greg followed her in.

He responded in the expected manner, noting her thigh-high boots and skirt made of faux-feathers, but he was distracted. Something was different. Something had happened. You could see it clearly in Greg, he was looking at Reid in the most peculiar of ways, and he seemed expectant. He made a quick deduction before speaking to Miranda while staring straight into her pale eyes.

"I fear your visit is not of the sort we have been told to expect. If I may be so bold, I suspect there has been an incident. Perhaps concerning our team?" He continued to look into her gaze as she formulated a response, searching for a clue as to what had happened. Morgan looked at him, but clearly decided against interrupting the interaction. Miranda smiled at him as she crouched down to better meet his eyes and spoke in her velvet smooth voice.

"Ah, I cannot keep anything from you, can I? Well, you shouldn't bother your pretty head about it- it's not of much relevance to us, as it turns out, which is rather a pity for dear old Aaron. I thought I would do a little something for him, just to remind him what's at stake here." Morgan and Reid shot each other looks, despite themselves. What had Hotch done? And what was she planning? Morgan took advantage of Reid's distraction to intervene in the conversation.

"What does this have to do with Reid and I? Hurting us isn't going to do you any good with Hotch; he knows we're trained agents and wouldn't get put off his mission. Besides, taking him on while you're still opposing us is a bad move. Don't underestimate the BAU." Morgan's speech was clearly designed to turn her attention to him, and off Reid, and it succeeded. She looked at him contemptuously.

"Oh, I'll be a little more subtle than that. And I believe he's already challenged me. I don't back down from challenges because I'm too busy. That would be terrible manners! And there's nothing I hate more than bad manners." This last remark was clearly aimed at him. "In fact, I'm glad you brought up that point. You see, since I'll be needing a little something from Spencer, I didn't think it would be polite to then continue with our planned clash of wits. I do quite want this, and in return I'll be offering to put my plans on hold and provide you with more food and water for the next twelve hours before we resume our regular scheduling." Reid couldn't help a sense of relief. He didn't want to have to deal with her, and more than anything he didn't want to have to leave Morgan. Morgan was clearly a little less willing, though.

"And what if we don't want to give you whatever it is?"

"Then I'll just take it." She gave a bone chilling grin before turning back to Reid and stroking his face slowly. "Besides, I don't need anything from you. I just need a little, tiny something from you, Spencer. I'm afraid I can't take it from Derek, because he doesn't have the same innocent air as you. Your team tries to protect you from everything, and I need to show them they can't. Don't worry, you will suffer no permanent damage. It won't even hurt much." She cooed to him, and almost seemed legitimately regretful. Almost.

He had a very bad feeling about what was about to happen as he nodded his head, hearing Morgan attempt to object from his side and knowing it wouldn't do any good. He was so very, very tired of this ordeal.

* * *

Rossi and Hotch stole fugitive glances at their fellow onlookers in the small room as they gathered around the one-way mirror that showed Prentiss sitting opposite the man of the hour. McAllen was leaning against the wall behind them, feigning disinterest, while Bloom and Delaire stood next to them. Delaire looked grim, and while Bloom was calm as usual, the profilers couldn't fail to notice the beads of sweat gathering just south of his hairline. This was it. The big moment.

Rossi took the opportunity to examine May-Bloom. He was indeed a large man, and clearly muscular. But he didn't have the usual air of power that comes with most people of intimidating size. He seemed a little confused as he was informed of his rights, and kept looking about as if for instruction. His clothes were dirty and loose, with torn jeans and a stained jacket over his plain t-shirt. They hadn't kept the handcuffs on, adding to the relaxed aura they hoped to re-enforce. His large hands seemed out of place wrapped around his Dixie cup of water, and one finger was tapping a rhythm into the metal table. In the same way Bloom kept his emotions on a tight leash, you could easily read his half-brother. He was looking for guidance, and while he knew where he was and seemed to have an idea of what was expected of him, he didn't know how to react to this situation and was looking for someone to tell him. Eventually Prentiss took pity on him and began her interrogation. The tense group watching heard every word through the mike in the room, transmitting everything to them in a slightly electronic tone.

"So, Alexander- may I call you Alexander?" Prentiss asked, keeping a warm tone to her voice as he stumbled to answer in a low, almost shy voice.

"You can if you wanna, but most people call me Alex" He mumbled. She gave him a quick smile before continuing.

"Okay, Alex. I'm going to get straight to the point, so we don't have to waste too much time here. We received intelligence of a security leak online. Someone posted some sensitive information on a popular website. We removed the information, of course, but we then figured out who leaked it in the first place. And do you know what we found?" Her tone was still fairly friendly. Alexander shook his head dumbly as he stared at her.

"We found out that you, Alex, leaked the information." She waited for his response as his mouth flapped open and shut a few times, searching for an answer. This was pretty basic questioning technique for someone with his behavioural type. He relied on other people taking the lead. When left to cope for himself, he could be confused into revealing more than he intended. Alexander wasn't an unintelligent man, just an unsociable one. He wasn't used to having to fend for himself in an actual conversation- he was probably used to taking orders from his half-brother, and given his lack of other social interaction he was at an obvious disadvantage against Emily's well honed questioning tactics. Eventually he responded- much to the disappointment of his half-brother (though he tried to hide it).

"Well, um, I don't know what you're talking about... Maybe someone else made it look like I did..."

"We can prove it was you who leaked the info. Now level with me, and you'll get off a lot easier. We don't want to charge you or anything. We just want to know why."

"Well... but... What do you want?"

"We only want to know why you leaked the info. Just admit to it, and make this easier for all of us." Prentiss was leaning forward now, staring into his eyes, which were flicking from hers to the table at an alarming rate. He waited several moments before answering. It was clear he had been instructed to deny the charges, and was going to obey.

"I didn't do it."

"These are serious charges, and they would damage you and your half-brother greatly if we had to make a big deal out of this." Both Bloom and Alexander jumped slightly at the mention of the former.

"I didn't tell anyone nothing, I swear!"

"We know you did, though." Prentiss sat back and waited for him to answer. He was fidgeting and looked like he was having an argument inside his head. "Alex! Make the right choice here. We know you leaked the info, and this isn't getting either of us anywhere. Come on. I'm not waiting forever." Her tone was getting dangerous now, and he appeared even more unsettled, before finally blurting out another denial.

"No! I didn't put anything about those agents anywhere!" Everyone watching made noises in the backs of their throats as he realised his folly.

"Alex, I never told you what information was leaked. I mentioned nothing about any agents. You've just admitted your guilt, and there's no point in denying it anymore." Prentiss wasn't being completely truthful; the evidence was circumstantial at best. A more educated person, or a smoother talker, could have gotten around it (if not without difficulty). The man in front of her, however, clearly believed it and his entire figure slumped. He sighed.

"I guess you're right. I didn't think it would hurt nobody to post it. Besides..." He cut himself off before he could say anymore.

"Besides what, Alex? Why did you post it?"

"Umm... I didn't think it would hurt, and, erm..."

Rossi looked at Bloom as his half-brother continued stumbling through his denials and half-baked reasoning. The man was trying hard to keep his face straight, but he was pallid and sweaty and it was obvious he was clenching his jaw. Rossi noted his fingernails digging into his clasped hands, and the way his lips were ever so slightly compressed. The calm man was livid with anger.

He and Hotch exchanged looks. They were going to need to get a little more aggressive to get anything out of Alexander. It was clear he was hiding something. Time for the old and gold- the good cop bad cop technique. Hotch nodded, and left to enter the interrogation room. Delaire had her eyes intently fixed on the man through the mirror and barely even noticed he was gone. Bloom began to question what he was planning, but one glance stopped him. McAllen had a strange smile on his face, but aside from that was still casually leaning in the back. It was clear he, at least, was enjoying this. They all continued to observe as Hotch entered and slammed a file down on the desk, making a loud banging noise and causing Alex to jump. He stood at the side of the table, in between Prentiss and Alex.

"So. You're the one who decided to place my agents in danger." He waited staring at Alex for a few seconds with an intense expression on his face. "And now you're telling us you don't know why." You could cut the air with a knife. Eventually, Alex could take it no more and started stammering out his 'reasoning'.

"W-well, I didn't want to hurt nobody, and I just thought it was, um, I don't know, I uh, um."

"Stop with your ridiculous snivelling and stop bullshitting me. Why would you think that putting information out there like that would NOT hurt my agents? Why did you think we didn't tell anyone ourselves?" He glared at the severely cowed man, who gave Prentiss a pathetic look. She gave her head a small shake as she spoke.

"I'm sorry, Alex, but unless you tell us why you did this we can't help you."

"I- I can't tell you." He stared at the floor. Prentiss gave him a sad look, and gently closed her file.

"Why not?" When he didn't answer, she continued. "Did someone tell you not to?" He looked up quickly, and everyone could see that she hit the nail on the head. "Was it the same person who told you to post the information?" He stared at her, before speaking very quickly.

"He told me not to tell about anything. He said you would arrest me. He said not to tell. He said to post it. Please, believe me, I didn't want to do any of it, but I can't help it. You have to help me."

"We can't help you until you give us solid facts!" Hotch jumped in, drawing his attention back off Prentiss. "Who told you to post it? Who is making you do this?" He snapped his fingers in his face. "You need to smarten up and help yourself! You have no idea the sort of trouble you'll be in if you don't give us what we need." He leaned forwards as the silence grew. Just when they thought he wasn't going to answer, he did.

"It was Harry. He's always looked out for me an' stuff, and so I thought he was right." It took them a few seconds to figure it out- before they almost simultaneously remembered that Harry was Bloom's first name. Bloom looked like he had been frozen in position, except for the flexing of his jaw. Delaire was giving him a look of mixed horror and anger, as if she didn't want to believe what was slowly beginning to come together, but wasn't going to hide from it if it was true. Prentiss continued the interrogation, only able to imagine what was happening behind the mirror.

"Your step-brother made you do this? Why?"

"Yeah... he said it would distract you. He was just try in' a protect me, you know, so please don't be too harsh on him. He's a good brother. He didn't want nobody to find my accidents." The man looked innocently into her eyes, as the onlookers looked on in a stunned sort of silent horror.

"What accidents?" Prentiss asked, tone careful.

"He said not to ever tell anyone, but sometimes I get these urges, you see, and I get this awful buzzing in my ears and I don't think so well until I take care of it. But it was all okay because Harry showed me how to find girls, and make it all go away without causing any trouble. I don't want to hurt them, you gotta understand, but I can't help it. Harry just helps me out with it, he hasn't done anything. You see, we didn't mean anything by it. So you can let us go now."

* * *

Hotch watched as the policemen turned the small, dim apartment upside-down. So far they'd found no evidence of any foul play- no hairs or blood- but a lot of evidence of evidence being taken away. Random walls repainted, a great many cleaners that didn't seem to be used regularly, bleach stains covering carpet. They figured the first kills had taken place in this apartment, but they were still searching for a secondary location. They would have found it by now, except that all hell had broken loose when they'd tried to make a movement against Bloom. He had taken them by surprise and fought his way to the door to the room his brother was in, and told him to stop talking- among more offensive things. They had eventually gotten him under control, but Alex had clammed up, and the only thing Bloom would say was that that they wouldn't ever find them.

There was a lot of controversy. Several things pointed to them being the ones responsible for the recent serial killings, and it was the opinion of most of the police force that they were. Most thought that Bloom had been using his brother for raw power and taking advantage of his need to kill, but accredited the more gruesome killings to the policeman. Of course, many still refused to believe Bloom was guilty at all, but for the most part, the killer was thought to be caught. They said the reason Alex had only mentioned the girls was that Alex only wanted to kill them, and the men were Harry's part in it. They also assumed that it was the BAU agents Bloom was referring to them never finding. Despite this, Hotch had a few niggling doubts about their guilt. He didn't know what it was, but something didn't feel right about it. Like they were rushing to a conclusion without thinking it through. Maybe it would seem finished when they had Reid and Morgan back.

Lost in thought, he almost missed his phone ringing. It felt like a dream come true as he listened to the best news they'd had this entire case. They'd found the secondary location- Garcia had found an abandoned warehouse just outside of town that the two received parking fines for parking outside of several times. He was meeting Prentiss and Rossi there to investigate. Quickly signalling to McAllen, the two men rushed to the car sped over to the scene at frankly illegal speeds.

The warehouse was rusted and old, with cloudy windows and vandalism covering the outside. Despite this, inspection showed that the locks were state-of-the-art and the structure had been re-enforced over a long period of time- and certainly not by the owners. The hinges looked rusty, but swung open nearly without sound. When they finally entered the still, cool air inside, they found a large space, like an airplane hangar, with walls splattered with rust and dirt. Cobwebs hung in corners, and the whole image was of the undisturbed tranquility of a dead place. Their footsteps of the concrete floor echoed eerily as they drew their guns and slowly walked into the middle of the room. The walls seemed to be staring at them, watching them disapprovingly.

The effect was broken by Prentiss pointing to the far side.

"There. The trapdoor."

The door looked like a plain wooden one leading into the crawlspace or cellar, but like much else in this place, it was not what it seemed. Upon further inspection, it was revealed to be made of a heavy metal underneath, with a similar lock to the front door. It took them several minutes with a blowtorch to open it, every second seeming like an hour. Because they knew that while they were fooling around with this lock, Reid and Morgan with quite possibly in pain and certainly just out of their reach. Eventually, it broke open, and the team entered, guns drawn as precaution.

The stairs were concrete, and the echoing of their footsteps was only magnified by the enclosed space. It was pitch black, and Hotch scrabbled along the wall for a light switch as they entered the first room. He couldn't find it, and was forced to shine his flashlight out into the blackness in search of a more efficient way to light the enclosed space. As the others entered behind him, they scrunched their noses. He'd been so intent on finding the light he'd barely registered the smell. It was an earthy scent, but it had a much more sinister undertone to it. The unmistakable stench of death. As his eyes adjusted, Hotch found a cord hanging from the ceiling. He yanked it and illuminated the medium sized room bathed in the soft yellow light of the single bulb in the middle of the ceiling. The room was plain, with only an old wooden table and two chairs in the center. The floor was dirt, and they could see the wooden beams that held up the roof when they looked up.

On the sides of the room to their left and right were two identical doors facing each other. They were heavy and metal, with thick padlocks and bolts. Hotch holstered his gun, and turned to Prentiss, Rossi and McAllen. The other police officers were inspecting the rest of the extensive building, and the echoes of their speech and movements occasionally found their way into the underground chamber that they were in. The sounds were distorted and seemed foreign and frightening, like the souls of disturbed ghosts that haunted these forbidden grounds.

"It seems like we're going to need the blowtorch again for these doors." Hotch said, motioning to the tool in McAllen's hand.

"Yeah- which one should we do first? It's really creepy down here." He said, clearly disturbed by the atmosphere. Hotch would have smirked at the thought of all the places that the BAU had investigated over the years, except that he didn't really do smirking. That was okay because Prentiss did it for him though- this was nothing compared to some of the blood soaked crime scenes they'd had to deal with.

"It doesn't really matter, I suppose-"

"Shh!" They turned to Prentiss who had just interrupted Hotch, of all people. "You hear that?" They were immediately on guard. As they strained their ears they began to hear a whimpering noise, the noise of muffled crying. It was coming from the door on the wall to their left. Immediately, they rushed over.

"Hello? Can you hear me? This is the FBI. If possible, please move away from the door. Can you hear me?" The whimpering increased in volume, and there were shuffling noises. Hotch hardly dared to hope as McAllen began to work on the thick lock. _It had to be, please let it be, please let them be okay, please let them be okay, please let it be them, it is them. _

Finally, the door was open. Hotch and Prentiss brushed past the blond man and into the room. In the center was a thin, beaten hunched figure in the center of the room. They were looking up as if all their dreams had come true, with huge, liquid eyes full of pain and hope. Chains encased skinny ankle and wrist joints, a dirty rag was pushed in between chapped lips.

She was not Reid or Morgan.

Despite the heartbreak the realisation brought to Hotch and Prentiss, they rushed over. Hotch yelled for a medic. Prentiss gathered the woman up in her arms and began speaking to her in a soothing voice, telling her everything was going to be okay, that she was safe now. She gently pulled the rag out of her mouth and stoked her hair as the medics found them and began their work. The agents quickly removed the chains, thankfully only attached by removable pins. It was a testament to how weak she was that she hadn't gotten them off herself- it was probably the sheer weight of them that stopped her. They watched over as the medics loaded her onto a stretcher and carried her off. She only let go of Prentiss' hand when they lifted her.

As soon as she left they began scanning the rest of the empty room, noting the multitude of blood stains (some fresher than others). Suddenly McAllen walked in; face as white as a sheet.

"You guys are gonna want to see this."

They followed him back across the first room and through the other door at the opposing end. The second they passed through it, the aroma of death became overpowering. The source was immediately clear. In the middle of the room, loosely wrapped in sheets, were about fifteen corpses. They were all women, all in their twenties and all attractive. Some were barely more than skeletons, but a few looked fairly recent. These were the victims of the Bloom brothers. But not the victims of the serial killer they were hunting.

"Shit."

* * *

The mood in the BAU's conference room was gloomy and depressed. They'd hardly spoken on the way back to the station, and someone had yet to break the silence. The rest of the department was a flurry of activity. The brothers were being charged, someone was interviewing the poor victim. The bodies were thought to be prostitutes, which would explain why no one had noticed the killings. Only a few had been reported missing, and they had been disregarded. There was a huge effort going towards identifying the others. The media, of course, was having a field day. There was a general mix of pride at their accomplishment, and bitterness at both the fact that one of the killers was one of their own and that they weren't the killers they were looking for. The BAU had largely won over the force, and had received a fair few congratulations. It seemed a lot of people were keen to forget their allegiance to Bloom now that he'd been proven a killer.

But the BAU couldn't see it as an accomplishment. They were, once again, at square one and wondering where to go. The killer that had Morgan and Reid was loose and their friends still in danger. Rossi broke the silence.

"That explains why Bloom would risk leaking the information. He wanted to draw as much attention to the other killer as possible to distract from their own murders. Ironic that we wouldn't have known about them if he hadn't made that choice." None of them were in the mood to enjoy the slightly twisted humour. But the wall had been breached, and a tentative conversation began.

"Bloom probably didn't begin killing. My guess is that he used his skills to cover up his brother's 'accidents'. He may even have tried to stop Alex at first- but to no avail. He just got used to the power and began to like it. The torture and captivity was probably all his doing as well. Despite his disorganised step-brother's natural trend to devolve, as a team they were evolving in leaps and bounds. Its lucky we caught onto it when we did." Prentiss replied.

"Yes- and imagine if Delaire had retired and left the department under his control?" J.J. said with disgust in her voice. "I hate to seem happy when we still don't know what happened to Reid and Morgan, but this will do wonders from a public relations standpoint. As long as the media is busy harassing everyone about the other case, we'll be able to keep them from digging to deep into this one. That means we have the ability to more effectively monitor what information we release to them."

"I was thinking on the way here." Rossi broke in. "We may have caught the wrong killer, but that doesn't mean we need to scrap all our theories. Looking back on our reasoning, I think it makes sense that we may be looking at a duo. Think about the excessive cleaning and obsessive perfection of the capture and drop. Then the sheer power needed to take and hold a lot of the stronger victims. A similar brains-brawn team could have pulled off this."

"I think it's unlikely a lone person could be responsible." Hotch said, nodding. "I think we should focus our attention on teams. Also, where are they being held? Reid normally does the geographic profiling, so I think we've been a little lenient with it. We need to work on that- with so little psychological evidence, let's focus on the things we do know."

The team made noises indicating their agreement, when someone opened the door. It was a teenage boy, clearly a civilian and clearly out of place in the busy station. Actually, it was a testament to how busy the station was that he'd made it to their room without being stopped. Hotch got up and crossed over to the door as he spoke in a stern voice.

"What are you doing here? Civilians are not supposed to be in here." Just as he was about to shut the door on him, the boy spoke.

"Aaron Hotchner?" He looked unsure and uncomfortable. Hotch froze.

"Yes."

"Some dude outside gave me fifty dollars to give this to you. He said it was like, a present or something." He held out a smallish package wrapped in brown paper, the sort mail was covered with years ago. Hotch reached out and took the parcel.

"Did you see his face? What did he look like?"

"Umm, I dunno, I didn't get that good a look at him. Hey, am I in trouble? I didn't know I was doing anything wrong or nothing."

The team paid him no attention past Prentiss asking him to stay put for a few minutes. Their focus was solely on the box in the middle of them as Hotch unwrapped it slowly. He was wearing a pair of latex gloves they'd had in their room (thank god), so that none of the evidence was damaged. It wasn't very heavy, and they didn't find any of the signs that usually made themselves apparent when bombs were hidden in boxes like this. As the heavy paper fell away, a small, red, silk box with an old fashioned tag hanging off its black lace ribbon appeared. With fingers nearly trembling with anticipation, Hotch turned over the tag. In swooping handwriting, it said: _My sincere condolences. But it won't be that easy. _He untied the ribbon, and slowly lifted the lid off it.

Prentiss gasped. Rossi's hand went to his mouth. J.J. let out a small cry. Hotch just stared. This had to be some sort of sick joke. This couldn't be for real. The boy who had delivered the package was stammering out denials of guilt, and probably would have made a run for it except for the expression on Hotch's face as he looked down into it.

The inside of the box was lined with smooth plastic. And it was filled to the brim with blood.

* * *

**So, I've finally updated... heh heh heh... But its a nice long chappie! Over 10 000 words YAY! **

**The review button is actually really pissed off at me. As we speak its got its long, knife-fingernails to my throat- oww! AH, not so hard. Jeez, I'm updating it already! So please, PLEASE, PLEASE forgice my inconsistancy and review. My life is- OUCH! Goddamnit, I can't type when you do that! **

**In other news, I recently got pissed off at my mom and cut my own hair in a misguilded and ineffective act of teenage rebellion. Without a mirror. With dull scissors. SO I'm not going to be leaving the house anytime soon, and hopefully that means another chapter sooner. **


	14. Chapter 14

**So- here's the next chapter! Thanks again to all those who forgave me for the all too long wait, and helped me live another day. I think the reveiw button is thanking you too, but really the clicking noises could mean anything right now, so I'm going to keep writing... **

**WARNING: more torture, more general nastiness, a lot of agnst, and my great friend excessive foul language! **

**DISCLAIMER: Not mine, but I don't even care because season seven is rocking so far!**

* * *

Reid and Morgan sat at opposite ends of the room, looking at each other. They knew that eventually, Miranda would come back. They knew that this time she would want more than some blood. They knew that Greg would return. They knew the pain they would have to face. But this time it was different. This time they knew something else: the team wasn't going to find them.

At first, when they'd been taken, they'd been sure that within hours Hotch and the rest would figure out where they were, and come find them. After that, they had decided the team was probably profiling, and it would take a while before they came. But they would come. Now, for the first time, they forced themselves to seriously think about the possibility that no one was going to come save them. The facts of the matter were that Miranda had never left any traces before, and it was unlikely she'd start now. On top of that, Reid still had a hard time believing what a statistical anomaly Miranda was. It was, in truth, impossible for Hotch and the team to profile her without any more info. He had all the case files buzzing around in his head, all the time, and he knew that they wouldn't find her.

It was the simple truth of the matter. The team couldn't find them. Unless some unexpected fact or witness turned up, or unless pure chance directed them to them, the team was not going to find them. Ever. He knew it, and deep down inside Morgan knew it too. They had to face up to it at some point.

"They aren't going to find us." He was almost surprised when he heard his own resigned voice echoing in the cool air. Morgan's eyes focused properly upon Reid's, and Reid saw something in them. A sort of hopelessness, a sort of fear of putting words to the thoughts they both possessed. Reid knew, all his training told him that in order to survive this psychologically, he shouldn't keep talking. But he couldn't stop. It all started coming out, a sensation he was unfortunately familiar with.

"The team won't find us. They have nothing in the profile that points to her, and I'm the expert of geographical profiling. They have no evidence, they have little support, and they're two team members down. Miranda is torturing them emotionally, even if they're not aware of it yet. She will win. They have nothing. They're not going to find us." Reid's voice was calm. Morgan immediately began shaking his head.

"C'mon, Pretty Boy, don't give up on me now. We don't know-"

"We're going to die here."

There was silence as Reid finally spoke what was on both their minds. His voice wasn't panicked, just quiet and withdrawn. Morgan looked at him, lost. He couldn't deny it, not when he'd been thinking exactly the same thing.

"Reid..." He couldn't think of any way to finish the sentence that would make this situation better, so he opted to distract him. "You haven't been doing well recently have you?"

The younger man seemed to choke back a hysterical sob.

"I've been kidnapped by a sadistic psychopath. What do you think?" The harsh tone was unlike him, but Morgan pushed ahead without commenting.

"No, I mean before this. You haven't been eating much recently, and don't try to pretend you're getting enough sleep. What's been going on?"

"Nothing." Reid's tone was guarded, but at least he wasn't talking about how they were going to die anymore.

"You can't handle everything by yourself, you know. You always seem to forget that we're here for you. That I'm here for you."

"It's... not important. I'm fine."

"No, you're not. I know you've been through a lot, but you can't just reject other people whenever something goes wrong. You need to trust us a bit."

"I do trust you! It's- it's not like that." Reid turned his head so he was looking at the floor and refused to meet Morgan's eyes. He didn't know where this sudden guilt-tripping was coming from, but he didn't like it. It was none of Morgan's business, and wasn't important. Why did he have to bring this up now?

"Then what is it like? Because from where I stand, it looks like you're shutting us out. Again." Reid's head snapped up as Morgan intoned the last word purposefully. Morgan almost cheered. At last, he was getting somewhere.

"It's complicated. I can handle it."

"Not by yourself you can't."

"Yes, I can. I'm not just some useless little kid you have to protect anymore, Morgan. I can deal with my own issues without weighing everyone else down with them." Reid's voice was stronger now, and his eyes burned into the other man's with conviction.

"No one thinks you're useless. Everyone needs help though, and you need to learn how to accept it. Nobody's being weighed down with your problems; nobody would think any less of you if you told us what was wrong once in a while. Besides, if your way of dealing with things is to stop taking care of yourself then you need more than a little help." Morgan stared at him, trying to push his point home through sheer force of will if nothing else. Reid sighed, and the fight seemed to leave him.

"I'm worried, okay? Are you happy now?"

"Worried about what?" Morgan's tone was gentler now.

"About turning into my mom. About going crazy one day when no one notices and having to be put away. About causing you guys pain because I'm weak. I'm worried because I'm weak. Because I give in too easily, because even though I'm smart I still can't uphold a normal relationship with anyone outside of work, because more and more I feel like I understand killers far better than normal people. I'm worried because I don't know what I'll turn into later, and that scares me." Reid's voice sped up as he talked, until his voice reached a panicked high. He stopped, and his chest rose and fell a few times before he looked back at the floor and his voice got quiet and unsure again. "I'm sorry, you don't need to know about that, forget I said anything."

"Pretty Boy..." Morgan felt like he'd kicked a puppy or something. When Reid acted like this it made him want to both hug him and punch people out. Reid was capable and intelligent and Morgan respected him a lot, but he still saw him as a little brother he needed to protect at all costs. He hated it when he felt like he couldn't. He got up and crossed the room, sitting down beside him. Reid still wouldn't meet his eyes. Morgan spoke in firm tone.

"Reid. Look at me." He slowly raised his eyes to meet Morgan's. "You are not weak. At all." Reid sighed.

"I know. I mean, I know on a conscious level. But it's not easy to remember all the time... I just- I just don't want to cause any problems for anyone. It seems like that's all I do sometimes. Cause problems for people who've been nothing but good to me." He seemed relieved to get it off his chest. Morgan leaned back against the wall, before reaching over and pulling Reid into a one-armed hug. He squeezed him for a moment before they both relaxed back leaning side by side against the wall.

"Look, we've all got problems. I mean, fuck, you gotta be a little messed up to do what we do every day. You're not alone, you've got us. Tell us when you get like this, don't just tuck it all away. And eat. That's important too. How do you think I get my muscles?" He said, adding the last bit with a smirk. Reid responded with a crooked smile.

"You get your muscles by being a freak of nature. How can I compete with that?" They both giggled a bit, before lapsing into a comfortable silence, before Reid broke it again. "What about you?"

Morgan frowned slightly.

"What do you mean?"

"I may not be a social butterfly, but I am a profiler. You made me tell you what's wrong, now you tell me what's been bothering you." He looked over at Morgan who sighed deeply and paused for a few seconds before speaking.

"It was that asshole. Greg." He spat out the man's name. "He knows a little more about my past than I would have liked. That's all." It took Reid a few seconds to figure out what he meant.

"Oh... you mean...?"

"Yeah." He looked down into Reid's wide, concerned eyes. "But don't worry about me. It takes more than a few words to get to Special Agent Derek Morgan." Reid could tell that though Morgan was trying hard to conceal it, his hear t wasn't in it.

"We can't let them win." Reid's tone was determined. "No matter how low the odds of survival are, we can't let them win."

"No. We can't." Morgan agreed.

"Even if they are really low."

"Wait... Just out of curiosity, how low are we talking?" Morgan hesitantly asked. All his fears we confirmed as he looked over at Reid. However, before Reid could prove his concerns correct with numbers, they were interrupted.

As the bolts on the doors clanked open, they only had time for one last despairing glance at each other before they were pulled back into hell.

* * *

"You're absolutely sure?" Rossi asked for what must have been the hundredth time. The man before him was wearing a white lab coat and a sympathetic expression that was becoming a little worn down.

"Yes, yes we are. I'm sorry agent, but the technology we used has a 99.9% accuracy rate. No matter how many times you ask us, the answer will stay the same." The young man's words grew a little exasperated near the end, as if he could sense Rossi's prevailing suspicion of all things new and high tech.

"Of course, I understand... but, just to be clear, you are quite certain that it's his?"

"Rossi." Hotch's authoritative tones saved the poor lab-tech from having to respond again. "None of us want it to be true."

Rossi hesitated before nodding. Hotch was right, he couldn't afford to let his emotions impact his judgement. The man in the white coat left as an officer appeared. He was middle-aged and slightly overweight, with a balding spot on top of his head and experience written all over his face. Hotch nodded for him to enter the conference room as the rest of the team looked up attentively. They needed some good news. This, however, was not destined to be it.

"We've questioned the boy who brought the box in. Didn't see much, I doubt we'll get anything from him. He's pretty freaked out. We might get an ID from him if we're lucky, but I doubt anything solid. Nothing that would hold up in court, that's for sure."

Hotch dismissed him with a nod and J.J. shut the door after him. As soon as he was out the door, the team seemed to collapse in on themselves a bit. It had been a hard several hours, and they'd gotten nothing. Prentiss leaned forwards and spoke as she rubbed her forehead with her hand.

"So we've got one serial killer caught, and just after we've found out it's the wrong one we get a package sent by the real offender filled with Reid's blood." Her tone wavered ever so slightly on the last two words, but she made an admirable recovery. "The delivery boy was paid to give it to us, and he hasn't seen enough to make a positive ID. This un-sub knew when we made the arrest, and managed to time the thing perfectly after we found the warehouse. It could be a coincidence, but I doubt it. They knew everything. I don't know how they're getting this info, but we need to find out."

"The blood was fresh, so at least we know that they're probably not- that they're probably alive." J.J. caught herself just in time. She was still looking pale. Blood had stopped bothering her a while ago, but when it came from someone you loved the entire situation changed.

"Well, we know that Reid was at least alive no more than a day ago, but most likely injured. We can only hope that the un-sub left some evidence on the box, or that forensics gets something out of the blood. Dust and such can tell an awful lot about an area. We can't give up hope yet- un-subs always trip up eventually." Prentiss didn't mention the obvious. They had a sign that Reid could be alive, but nothing from Morgan.

There was a knock on the door. The team straightened, all internally sighing at the next unwanted interruption. Instead of waiting for them to let him in, the knocker entered before they had the chance to even rise. It was McAllen, of course, who still had little respect for their protocol. He was wearing a rumpled shirt and a slightly undone tie. His blonde hair was sticking up in places and it looked like he hadn't slept in several days. _Running on coffee, _thought Rossi. _Welcome to the team, buddy. _

"I've been dealing with the whole Bloom situation, so I didn't hear about it until a few minutes ago. What have you guys been looking at?"

The team looked at each other, still unused to his upfront approach to everything. What should they tell him?

"Well, the lab said the blood was fairly fresh, and that it belonged to Reid." Hotch began. But before he could continue, McAllen intervened.

"No, no, I got all that from the dude with the report. What I mean is, what have you guys been working on? You know, your profiling witchcraft?" He raised his eyebrows at them, as they glanced at one another.

"We haven't really gotten anything yet. We're working on it though." Prentiss' words weren't lying, per se, but they weren't really true either. The team had, to a degree, taken to avoiding the collusion caused by the mass of paradoxes that was the un-sub they were trying to profile.

"Well, tell me if you get anything. Something tells me that we're not going to get any hard evidence from this guy, and at this point I'll take anything I can get. Including whatever technique you guys are passing off for science these days." He was out in a flash, shutting the door after him.

The team was quiet for a moment, considering his words, before Rossi broke the silence.

"He's right. We're on this case to do what we do best- profiling. Geographical stuff, analysing evidence, that's all fine and good. But at the end of the day we need to buckle down and do the things only we can do. Psychological profiling. That's what we're here for, and it's the only thing that's going to get Reid and Morgan out of this alive." He leaned back as the rest of the team nodded. "Okay, what we've got so far is only going to serve to over complicate things. Let's look at the 'present' individually, like we would if it came from any other un-sub. Then we'll work from there. We've got a long day ahead of us, but this is the best piece of profiling information we've had yet. If we use it properly, we can have the beginnings of a half-decent profile in time to do some good with it."

He stood up and pulled a new sheet down over the easel they were taking notes on.

"Now let's do this, people, before it's too late."

* * *

"Well, this is a conundrum, isn't it?" Miranda said, as she and Reid stared at the tiles in front of them.

This challenge had been a creative one. Reid had to give her credit, she knew how mix things up. They were playing Tianjiu, an ancient Chinese gambling game. It used the same times and names as the better known Pai Gow, but the rules are much more complex. Reid, fortunately, was familiar with it. For all intents and purposes, he should have won. He was from Vegas. He knew the game. He was good, very good in fact, at these sorts of games. Unfortunately, Miranda knew this. So instead of just playing cards, he had to do it blindfolded. When you're playing with tiles similar to dominos, it becomes quite hard to identify the differences solely by touch. Add to this the fact that he was terrified of being at Miranda's complete mercy and not even being able to see her, a fact she took great advantage of, and he was more than handicapped.

So it was actually good that he'd tied her. They'd both won six games each, and it had taken a very. Long. Time. It didn't take a genius to see how impatient Miranda was getting, and Reid was trying to stop his hands shaking. He didn't know how much more of this he could take before he had a full on panic attack. She would go quiet for a few minutes, and he'd lose track of where she was in the room. Then he'd hear, right behind him, right in his ear, her voice. Saying something about how she could see his tiles, or how he 'really was afraid of the dark, wasn't he?' And then she would trail her fingernails down his arm of neck- her fingernails she'd attached sharp, metal hooks to. He kept his mask in place, but it wouldn't be long before it broke. She, on the other hand, was clearly tiring with this game and wanted to get it over and done with.

"Yes, it is. I fear we are too well matched opponents in this strange battle. What do you say? Shall we say that the next round be the one to determine our wager?" His voice was calm, even playful, but his heart was beating a quick rhythm on the inside of his chest, as if it were dancing to a rising crescendo of the screeching fiddles and pounding drums of panic. Wearing stilettos.

"No, no, no. I grow weary of this tiresome duel. A meeting of swords whose arms have not the energy to support them is of no interest at all, I'm sure you'll agree." She flashed him a cat-like gaze, curling her lips into a small smile as her pale eyes analysed him from beneath hooded lids. "I shall expire of boredom right here and now, unless, of course, you might take me up on a little game. A decider, nothing more, for two rivals whose fight to determine the better draws hours too long. Will you save my life before the greyness pulls me under?" She gave a great dramatic sigh, and feigned swooning. Reid calculated, but merely for a moment.

"Well, I cannot let a lady die before my eyes knowing I did nothing to prevent her passing. Tell me, how might you propose we settle this in a decisive fashion?" Reid replied coyly, trying to run the possibilities of what she could be up to in his head. The variables were too extreme- _I must be careful with this. No matter how tired I'm getting, I have to remember some of the alternatives she is capable of. _

"Oh, the simplest of challenges. Since you seem to dislike having your sight taken so, I shall play to your wish. A staring contest." Her grin widened. Reid's throat bobbed. He hadn't really done one of these in a very long time- the irony of such a childish game deciding something so severe was almost enough to make him laugh. But he knew that there was nothing about this situation that should make him laugh from anything other than hysteria. He cocked an eyebrow, trying to distract her from the fact he couldn't suppress the faint tremors in his hands. Before he could think of a more eloquent response, she continued.

"In fact, I am quite exhausted with this long battle. So I am now making an executive decision. However, I do wish this to be done properly. So this is how it's going to work. We shall both close our eyes. Then, when I call go, we shall both open our eyes. From there, the first person to blink or break eye contact loses." Her tone was uncharacteristically uncontrolled, and it was plain that she'd grown tired of not winning a while ago.

Reid barely had time to nod before she started counting down, presumably to the start of the competition. He drew in a shaky breath, trying to stop his heart from beating so fast. Improvisation had never been his style, and he had very little relevant data to help him here. And the stuff he did possess didn't bode well for his chances.

_Unless... _No. That wasn't his style, and he didn't want to piss Miranda off. But then again...

"Close." Miranda's voice seemed to echo in his head as he calculated her probable reactions.

"Open."

_Shit. _His mind still racing, he opened his eyes to meet her stare. Her pale eyes were perfectly calm, like ponds iced over in the winter. The seconds ticked by, and they seemed to bore into his. Though he normally wouldn't need to blink yet, the very act of bringing attention to his eyes made them tingle behind his retina, and there seemed to be a voice in his head telling him if he just blinked it would all be fine. Suppressing reactionary instinct involved over-riding the part of the brain that handles automatic responses, and that goes against our nature. His eyes began to water a little, but it wasn't entirely from keeping them open. Miranda's icy gaze seemed to be drilling into his head, and for a second it was as if his mind shut down. His vision was occupied completely by those two orbs. They filled his line of sight, pushing deep into his head. They seemed to be telling him just to give up, blink, throw in the towel.

In that moment Reid realized that he was not going to win this. She was using a technique used by hypnotists and traditional martial artists, a way of staring at someone that gives the illusion you are looking right through them and into their soul. Her manner was of cold, calm experience. This was most defiantly not the first time she'd used her eyes as weapons, and he'd bet she could go minutes without blinking. He didn't stand a chance. Well, unless he cheated.

Nothing too overblown, something subtle- but it had to work. Surprise was his only weapon right now.

Her eyes remained focused on his, and in the intensity of her gaze she missed it as he slowly raised his hand up to the side. He couldn't even breathe right now. The sheer intimidation coming off her in waves combined with his fears and doubts about the sanity of what he was about to do- knowingly anger a psychopath with him in her clutches- combined to make a potent poison of nervousness.

**_CRACK! _**

Miranda jumped, and Reid focused all his attention on keeping eye contact as time seemed to slow down, until, with a surprised look on her face, her eyes closed for a fraction of a second. Reid had always been great at snapping, and that had been one of his best. A noise like a whip that echoed across the enclosed chamber. He felt a rush of pride for a second before it occurred to him to be worried right about now. He slowly met Miranda's gaze again. Her look was impenetrable, and there was a tense standoff for a few seconds. Then, like a dam breaking, Miranda tilted back her head.

And laughed.

Her chuckling resounded around the room as she cackled in abandon, a grin on her face. Eventually, she looked back at him, still giggling and wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.

"Oh, Spence, Spence, Spence, Spence," She sighed theatrically "I did not think you had the balls to do that at all. It's always nice when someone surprises you. I can't deny you won that one. You caught me, I didn't specify that you couldn't do that. Nicely done. Touché. Touché indeed."

Reid could have flopped down on the ground right then and there, but instead he just allowed her to lead him out of the chamber, as her remaining giggles bounced off steel walls.

* * *

**I know this chapter is pretty short and pretty shitty, but I figured it was better to post this half that I'm finished instead of waiting forever for the proper inspiration to make it longer and not suckish. I also know there's a lot of dialogue, and it's kinda late as is... I promise next one is gonna be so fucking good you have no idea. I've got it all planned out- and if I get it right, it should be awesome... **

**Sorry again... The review button's pressuring to post over-rided my quality related instincts. One can only withstand so much biting before one gives in... So much biting...**


	15. Chapter 15

**Hey guys! Faster update this time, eh? Good stuff, good stuff... **

**WARNING: this chapter has more of all that good stuff- torture and agnst and stuff, and Morgan keeps swearing his ass off. Bad Morgan! Don't be badass on the carpet! **

**DISCLAIMER: Criminal Minds is not mine. But Reid? Dat ass be mine! ... I wish... **

* * *

Morgan was growing nervous. It had been a long time since Miranda had carted his friend off. Reid couldn't get hurt again, not now, not so soon after he'd gotten some hope back. He sat watching the door for a while, until the building apprehension became too much for him and he all but leapt to his feet. He had, however, forgotten about his physical state, and immediately buckled over, clutching his aching torso. He staggered, before resigning and leaning against the wall, cursing Greg with all his might. _Someday, someday. Someday I'm gonna have my hands around that son-of-a-bitch's neck, and then I'm going to remember this as I squeeze. _

It was through his fury and pain that he vaguely heard the bolts clanking open on the door, and he barely registered it until 'that son-of-a-bitch' himself entered the room. Morgan straightened, hating himself for letting him see him weakened. He compensated by giving the other man a determined, angry look. Which was, of course, when it occurred to him that he shouldn't provoke him again given what happened to him last time. However, Greg seemed to be in a more stable state of mind, and only responded with the faint raising of his left eyebrow; on the contrary to the corners of his mouth, which were lowered in distaste. It was as if in between their encounters the man had gone from an ill-tempered, psychotic brute to a country-club snob.

"So, Derek." Greg spat out his name like it was the foulest of things. "Miranda has asked us to get to know one another. So we shall play a little game. I'll ask a question, and you will answer it. Then you may ask a question. And I... shall answer it."

Morgan could hear the resentment in his voice at having to do anything for him, but the velvety tone he used when he caressed Miranda's name was almost loving. Somehow it made him shudder far more than any of the deathly implications or open rage he'd heard from those same lips many times.

"And why should I play anything with you? This isn't a game, this is the forceful holding and torture of two federal agents."

Morgan couldn't help but rebel against this twisted shit. Reid may be able to play into their delusions, and ignore the sick shit that was going down, but all of Morgan's training told him not to. Then again, all of his training also told him not to openly provoke and oppose this sort of un-sub. Or any sort of un-sub that had you in its grip. Right now he should probably be trying to sneakily trip them up, or send a message, or establishing a personal connection. _Yeah, good luck with that last one. _Greg's eye was twitching faintly as he sat down in front of Morgan, and motioned for him to do the same.

"I'd rather stand." Morgan's tone was bitter and sarcastic. He was so tired of this bull shit.

"Well, I'd rather be yanking your intestines out through your nose, but I'm not doing that, am I?" His tone was polite and cordial, in stark contrast with his words. He smiled at Morgan for a second before his expression froze and he snarled. "Sit. Down. Now."

Morgan thought better of further antagonising him and sat down calmly, trying to pretend he wasn't gritting his teeth so tight he thought they'd be welded together.

"There we go, isn't that better?" Greg flashed him a smile.

"Yes, it is. My turn." Morgan took a vindictive glee in the expression on the other man's face.

"What do you mean?" His tone was angry and frustrated, like a small child upset by a joke they couldn't understand.

"Oh, now you've asked two questions and I haven't even got one. I'm referring to the game you proposed, after all." Morgan stared straight into the other man's black eyes.

"Yes, you're quite right." Greg hissed through his teeth. "Fine. Ask away."

"Okay, my question is this: where are we, exactly?" Morgan said with an almost playful edge in his voice.

"I can't tell you that." Greg was clearly unhappy, to make a gross understatement.

"Fine. Then answer this: why do you follow Miranda?"

Morgan saw a vein pulse in the side of his head; accordingly recognising the dangerous tightrope he was walking. Trying to keep Greg not in control of the situation was an important thing, but it wouldn't do him any good dead. Miranda was the best way of getting to him, and bringing her up provided much needed data on the dynamics of their relationship which could help the agents' profiling greatly; on the contrary, it but the man in a volatile mood which put them all in danger. He had no problem with taking the risk himself, he just didn't want to leave Reid alone with these people.

"She- I- because... It's none of your business." He glared, and Morgan decided to push a little more.

"You've already refused to answer one of my questions. Besides, I can guess. She's got money, right?"

"No." He leaned forwards and seized Morgan's collar, nearly lifting him from the floor with the force of his grasp. "I follow her because she is the one who pulled me from my deprivation and showed me the true world. She showed me why to and how to act like a gentleman. She is the holiest of people, and none of us are worthy of her. You are not worthy of speaking her name, you swine. As if I could take advantage of her! It's a grave insult her very being to presume as much. She is the only one who has reached any sort of enlightenment in this age. You couldn't even comprehend her beauty, her grace, her power. You disgust me." He glared at Morgan for a moment before releasing his shirt and speaking again.

"Now, I believe, I may ask you a question, Derek. So tell me- what did it taste like?'

"What?" Morgan's brow furrowed in faint confusion for a second.

"I asked you what it tasted like, when you were a teenager, and you sucke-"

His words were cut off as Morgan's fist soared through the air and landed square in the center of his face. There was a satisfying crunch for a moment and a spray of blood settled, warm and sticky, on Morgan's knuckles. It was not the best punch Morgan had ever thrown- he was tired out and beat up, and hadn't been in the best position to be hitting people. But it was a very, very nice punch. And with a measure of rage, even the weakest of people can do damage. No matter how bad of condition he was in, Derek Morgan was NOT the weakest of people.

Instead of falling into a fit of fury, Greg slowly took out a handerchief and dabbed at his nose. It was broken, Morgan noted with no little satisfaction. Then the man rose to his feet and slowly walked out the door, only turning to give Morgan one last parting glance.

It was a dangerous, dangerous glance.

* * *

Greg stretched as far as he could, his side muscles straining with the effort as he envisioned energy entering his feet through the floor and shooting up and out his hand. He turned his head to look at the ceiling, and then slowly released the pose, body flowing into the next. He bent low, low, lower, his hands reaching the floor and becoming supports with his legs. The energy was rooting him to the floor, he was a rock, strong and steady. He was perfectly in the moment, mind black except for the matter at hand. Which, at this time, was yoga. Letting his rage flow out of him with his sweat, he released himself and became one with the world. He breathed in until his lungs could hold no more, then let it out in a smooth, gradual exhale.

Suddenly something jarred his concentration. Exhaling hurt. Agent Morgan's face drifted into his stream of consciousness for a split second, but that was all it needed. _No, no, focus, focus, I am a rock, unmoved by time or thought... _It was no use. He wrenched himself from his pose and angrily began pacing the room, casting his eyes around for something to punch.

_How dare he demean Her like that? How DARE that scum of the earth think he had any sort of comprehension of Her! How dare he- How dare he SPEAK as if he were familiar, as if he could comprehend- as if, as if... _

Greg's pacing grew faster in pace, as he imagined, in his mind's eye, Agent Morgan's face. Beaten, again and again and again. Just a bloody pulp. A mashed, destroyed, utterly unrecognisable mess. Blood and bits of bone... maybe some of his brain flecking the gore with grey splotches. That didn't do it though, so Greg imagined the man's face contorted in pain. Utter, helpless, impotent rage and hate all over it. He wanted Agent Morgan to look up at him with those eyes. He wanted to see that desperation, that helpless, mindless despair. When had he seen a face similar to that on the man? That's right, when he was punching the skinny one.

At the thought of Agent Reid, who She seemed to love to play with so much, his pacing was nearly at a run. _Yes, She loves to play with him. That's all he is, a plaything. I am Her faithful butler. I am more to Her than he is, so much more. She'll see, after a while he'll get boring. She's already bored. Soon. Soon I'll get to kill him. _He was going to kill the younger agent so slowly, so gruesomely, so torturously slowly, and Agent Morgan would have to watch. And only when the older agent begged him on his hands and knees to just kill the other to spare him more pain, only then would be kill him. And as he killed him, he would watch the life die in those **irritating, **large eyes, and the guilt and the hate blossom in Agent Morgan's. Maybe he would force him to drink the other's still warm blood. Maybe he would force the man to do such things to the other's body he would off himself instead of living with the shame.

_Oh, all the possibilities. _

"GREGSY!" A tinkling, sweet voice floated melodiously down to him, beautiful even in a shout, shattering his thoughts into thousands of jagged, morbid, shards.

He quickly straightened his exercise shirt and promptly rushed out of the room to where Miranda, _oh-so blessed her name, _was slumped in a cushy armchair with a petulant pout on Her face. He thought She looked adorable, but he hid his feelings behind the profession poker face She had once instructed him on how to perfect.

"Yes, madam?" He said, voice brisk, yet politely subservient. She took one look at him and giggled. His brow furrowed slightly in confusion, until he realised where she was looking.

"Gregsy, dear, you have a little problem- I suggest you not fantasize too much about killing our dear guests quite yet. We still have so much fun to be had!" She giggled a few more times, before her face returned to the pout. "And that's why you're here. Gregsy, I'm BORED. I want to have some fun... Spencey isn't playing nice. I want to play with someone else for a bit."

Greg didn't mention her observation, hoping that it would just go away.

"Who do you wish to play with, my Lady? I could fetch you someone within the hour."

"No, I don't want another toy here, it's quite rude to invite more than two guests. Then they don't get enough attention, and we wouldn't want that, would we?" She giggled a bit the rolled out of the armchair and stalked over to the board where she'd pinned some pictures, staring at the people they starred. "No, I wanna play with Aaron for a bit. Yes, that's it, I want to have a little fun with Aaron. He looks so grim all the time, which is dreadfully boring. I'll tease him a little. Just some gentle prodding, that's all."

Miranda looked thoughtfully at the picture of him getting into the BAU van.

"I know! I'll send him some artwork. Everyone needs a little bit of art to brighten their days!"

"An admirable suggestion, ma'am, shall I fetch you your paints?" Greg asked with a faint smile on his face. He adored Miranda's art. It was beautiful, refined, yet raw and emotional all at the same time.

"No, no, I have a much better idea," she said with a grin that still chilled Greg to the bones even after all these years.

* * *

Reid slumped against the wall. He felt as if all of his energy had been leached from him, as if all of his intelligence, all of his enthusiasm, was just seeping away into the cold tiles beneath him. He was so useless, but right now he couldn't even bring himself to worry about his own failings. He needed to conserve what energy he had left into finding a way out of here. He'd realised something, and if only he could contact the team... He could get them out of here, he knew it. He tried to focus his eyes, but he couldn't quite manage to make the world clear. He just needed to think for a bit. He could think himself out of this, he just needed to think for a bit. It was just so frustrating; he couldn't bring himself above the black hole in his chest the pain and stress had opened up. If he could escape from reality, he could think. If he could just get away from the aching in his chest, and the agony touching his bruised flesh to anything caused, he could think his way out of anything.

He sighed, and leaned his head back against the wall.

Morgan watched Reid's brow furrow and followed his sluggish movements as he let his head fall back onto the cold surface. He was extremely concerned about the amount of stress that Reid was being forced through. It wasn't healthy (obviously), and it wasn't doing much for the genius' mental state. He had been very quiet since coming back from the last challenge. Morgan thought back to another time, which seemed like a century ago but was probably no more than a week before now, when Reid hadn't been able to stop talking. Now the other agent was silent often, wrapped in his own thoughts. He was piecing something together, or trying to, Morgan knew; however, it wasn't enough to stop him worrying. Reid looked like he was being hollowed out from the inside.

Morgan turned his attention to their chamber. He had spent a long time looking over the smooth, bright walls and smooth cool tiles. He knew every nook and cranny, could find that one hairline fracture on the black tile two square from the center of the pattern. But no matter how closely he looked over the room, he could find no weakness, nothing he could use. That being said, he also could find no cameras, which was both good and bad. If there had been cameras, it would have been easy to prove Miranda's guilt; on the contrary, this way no one would be able to see Morgan at his weakest and most pathetic. He knew it was selfish, but he never wanted anyone to see him or Reid in the states they'd been in. It was too humiliating, too demeaning and embarrassing for him to be able to handle. How could anyone see him in the same way after seeing him in a pathetic ball on the ground, or losing it at Greg like that?

_Clank! _The sounds of the bolts on the other side of the door coming undone echoed in their chamber. Reid looked up slowly, with despair in his eyes. They tormentors were not supposed to be here yet, this boded nothing well for them.

Greg, wearing an all-black silk suit and bright red top hat, marched in and unceremoniously tossed a pile of clothing on the floor, along with two pairs of handcuffs. Morgan opened his mouth to ask a question, but before he could make a sound Greg whipped out a gun and pointed it at him. Both Morgan and Reid froze. Greg's sneering, low voice cut through the deadly silence.

"My Lady asks you to change your shirts and then allow me to escort you. Speak and I will shoot you with no regret." His words came out ending in a growl that betrayed the unadulterated hate the man clearly felt towards both of them.

Morgan pulled out a dark, grey, non-descript t-shirt and replaced his now-bloody black one with it. He winced trying to pull it over his beaten and slashed torso, and caught Reid looking at him in concern. It was Morgan, however, that should have been concerned about Reid, who had a crisp white dress shirt. As he unbuttoned the faintly ridiculous maroon top and vest he'd been given previously, Morgan was forced once again to look at the extensive damage done to his body. It was pretty easy to forget that at least two of his ribs were at least cracked when you didn't have to see them, but when the patch of skin blackened with the extensive bruising was right in front of you, it looked terrible. Not to mention the bloody bandage snaking around his skinny chest covering the designed that had been carved into it. And all the other cuts and bruises. And the bloody collar that looked like it was eating his neck.

Morgan couldn't look at him anymore. He'd seen many a corpse that looked better than Reid did right now, but he couldn't get hung up on it. He had to focus on dealing with the situation at hand and surviving to see the other side of this- not to mention getting Reid out of it without any more damage. He couldn't let this get to him in a way that would prevent from him getting them out of there. With this in mind, he hooked the handcuffs over his wrists and closed them tight, before helping the genius with his own. As he enclosed the metal circles around those thin, bony, ragged, bloody wrists, all he could imagine was Greg's face. Greg's face bloody, beaten and defeated, unable to hurt anyone ever again. He wasn't going to let him get away with this.

That being said, as he followed him out of the hallway, he couldn't help but get the feeling that they were being led into Hell.

They entered a room with velvet curtains everywhere. Morgan recognised it as the room where Reid and Miranda had played the truths game, that he'd said she described as her 'evil lair'. However, instead of the thick carpet that Reid had described beforehand, there was a black wooden floor. _Must have been removable. _Miranda was waiting for them, surprisingly not wearing her usual dress, but black leather pants and a large, black t-shirt. Her gloved hands were clasped behind her back and she was turned away from them. Greg undid their handcuffs, but neither Miranda nor Reid broke the silence. Morgan instinctively followed his lead, but shifted his weight from foot to foot nervously as the seconds inched by like bug caught in honey. Then, without any sort of cue Morgan could see, Greg suddenly punched him in the stomach with enough force to make him double over.

Reid turned and began objecting, but as soon as he did, Morgan heard a familiar crack and a brief hum of electricity. Reid tumbled to the ground with a cry as a faint trail of smoke lazily drifted up from the collar around his neck. Morgan turned to help him, but as soon as he did, he felt Greg's weight on top of him, and his hot breath in his ear.

"Just give me one excuse. Please, just give me one." Greg's voice was thick with hatred.

Morgan could only look on as Miranda took a knife out and looked over Reid's body before viciously slashing his exposed belly, cutting cleanly through his shirt and creating a deep wound beneath. Her eyes were perfectly calm as she proceeded to repeat the process all again and again over his arms and upper body. Red blossomed over the clean, white material as the knife shone under the bright lights. Reid cried out the first few times, but after a fashion he merely moaned. Throughout this, Miranda's face was perfectly clean of expression. It was like she was watching someone peel a banana, or walk down the street. It was sort of a detached face. Then she turned away, stood back and admired her handiwork, before fetching two things from the side of the room. They were a digital camera and a newspaper.

She spread the newspaper out on the ground artistically, as if it had just fallen there by chance. After an amount of fiddling, she took out her camera. First she began snapping shots of the blood on the floor, and then she took several of Reid at different angles. Morgan was shocked, disgusted, and really had no idea what to think or how to react. It was so unexpected, so sudden, he couldn't even bring himself to be outraged. He just watched as she clicked away with the utmost concentration. Reid tried to rise, and Morgan saw him move his arms and legs a few times, but when he managed to get up, she clicked the remote and he fell again with a snap of electricity and a pathetic cry. At this Morgan attempted to go to him, but was held back by Greg. When he tried to break away from him, he felt the cold point of a gun through his thin t-shirt.

He gritted his teeth and waited until she appeared to become bored, and turned his attention to him. As Greg wrenched him upright, Morgan became terribly aware of why. Reid had lost consciousness.

He was pushed to the center of the room. He attempted to speak, to reason, to object yet again, but Greg hit him from behind. As Miranda's cold, hard ice-chip eyes looked down on him, Greg began kicking him. He felt the air leave his lungs as the man's foot connected with his already bruised body again and again, causing a spasm of pain wherever it buried itself into. He wasn't sure how much more he could take, when the beating ceased. He was left with a second to catch his breath before he felt a drip of something on his shoulder. It was freezing cold- no, that wasn't right, it was burning hot. Then the pain hit him. It felt like the drop was tunnelling into his body, like it was digging through his muscles and sinew.

_Acid, _he thought, as more drops rained down on him. He squirmed and screamed as the agony overloaded his senses.

Then, slowly, he became aware that there was no new pain. The drops had stopped. He lay there, panting, mind trying to process and compartmentalize it all. As he became aware of his surroundings again, he heard the click of a camera. She had begun photographing him in this state. He wasn't going to let them win. Anger diluted the pain, and he looked up into the lens. He was not going to let them think they'd won. Miranda stopped taking pictures as he slowly rose to a sitting position, and stared up at her. He put all his anger, all his determination, all his pure, burning hatred into that stare.

Click.

She pressed the button, and then he felt something smash into the back of his head. The world faded to black, but as the ground came up to meet his head and his senses dulled to nothing, he heard the camera. Click. Click. Click.

* * *

Hotch paced the room, listening half to the worn-out voices of the team, and half to the sounds of the rest of the station preparing itself for the day. It was about 9:30 in the morning, but the team had been there all night. The BAU had a policy against all-nighters, because without sleep their thoughts were sure to grown unrealistic and unreliable. Generally, they forced themselves to get sleep in order to gain precious perspective on their theories. However, today they made an exception. The team had been so involved and making the first real progress they'd had all case. Hotch hadn't the heart to send them home, not when they may have gotten the breakthrough to who was or where the agents were being held any moment.

He rubbed his eyes as Prentiss pointed with a vengeance at something on one of the many papers lying around. The team was getting too tired.

"Okay, let's take a break, then wrap this up. We need sleep. Get a conclusion ready while I speak to Delaire and update the rest of the department. Then, get to bed. We're useless to Reid and Morgan like this."

The team collectively sighed, shared worn out glances, then got up and nodded. Hotch's wisdom was clear as day; they needed sleep. Rossi began shuffling papers, and the rest of the team followed his lead. Hotch was looking meditatively at the wall- to most, he appeared to be lost in deep thoughts about the case, but the team knew that he was really just zoned out. The only time Hotch ever looked that philosophical was when he wasn't thinking at all. However, an unexpected rapping on the door froze them in their positions. The person didn't wait for them to answer, just marched in. It was McAllen, of course.

"We've just found something at the Bloom crime scene. You need to see this." His tone was grim. Hotch made the deduction just before Prentiss breathed it in a low voice filled with horror.

"They've left another present."

McAllen paused for a second before nodding.

"We thought you should be the first to know. It's addressed to you, Agent Hotchner, by your first name."

Hotch demanded to be the first to see it, and soon he and the blond detective were rushing towards the evidence room, team hot on their heels. As they brushed through glass doors at a near-run, it felt like the air they were moving through was thick and syrupy. Even though they knew that the package was already sent and received and two minutes wouldn't make much of a difference, it seemed like Reid and Morgan's lives were on the line if they didn't get there in time. Even as officers watched their fast retreating backs with faint surprise and more than faint curiosity, all they could think about was what could be waiting for them. However, even as Hotch raced down hallways, he couldn't help but fear what they were going to find. In the darkest part of his mind, he couldn't help wishing time would stop then and there. Stop cold, so that he'd never have to face what could be waiting in that room.

As they entered, the were already in motion, working in the perfect synchronisation. Identifying those who would cause problems because of the lack of protocol and dealing with them as the others retrieved the evidence. Delaire entered the room just as Hotch had gotten his hands around the brown paper package, tied with twine. Instead of asserting her authority, as they'd expected, she just nodded and watched as the twine was slipped off and the paper fell away to reveal a yellow-brown enveloped, the sort you might use in for mail. In the back of his mind Hotch absentmindedly wondered if Delaire was letting them handle this to avoid the blame later or to aid them do their job as best they could. But there was no time for that now, as he read the inscription on the front, written in the same swooping, elegant, cursive script.

_Aaron, _it read, _I've greatly enjoyed looking through your biography. I find it to be more than adequately satisfying- but I must confess to having but a miniscule criticism. You are wonderful at your work, truly, but you seem not to have the time to appreciate the finer things in life. So I took the initiative to provide a smidgen of my own art. Just a sampling, you see, but believe me. There's more where this came from. Ta-ta! _

With fingers he had to concentrate on not to tremble, Hotch opened the envelope. Inside, they could see several photographs the size of a piece of printer paper. He slid the first one out. It was an artistic shot of a white chess piece on a red and black background. The observers exchanged confused glances, but the team remained in a state of the utmost tension. Hotch placed the first aside before bringing out the second. This was a close up of a purple rose lying on a marble surface. The next was a paper crane, then a pile of stones. After was a book lying open, then a streetlamp. People were rushing around, of course, to identify the place the picture was taken, but Hotch knew that they wouldn't find anything helpful.

So he slid the next picture out. The bustling movement froze with J.J.'s gasp. It was a close up again, but this time of a hand lying relaxed open to the sky. An elegant, pale hand with long fingers. It was lying in a puddle of blood, and there were injuries around the wrist consistent with bonds. There was no mistaking whose hand it was. The team would have recognised it anywhere. Prentiss' knuckles were white on the table edge she was holding onto. No one said anything for a moment.

"Take out the next one." Said Rossi. His voice was dark and apprehensive, but he was right. They needed to see this, whether or not they wanted to.

This was another random shot, of a fake nest made of black twigs and red velvet rags. Inside were three very real dead chicks, still bleeding. Everyone shuddered, but it was quickly put aside. The next photo was the one they had been dreading. It was a shot of two arms- Reid's arms- lying in the blood spatters. Beside them was a newspaper, artistically scattered over the floor. The red of the blood, the black of the floor and the white of his shirt contrasted almost sickeningly well. The next came out as everyone looked on in shock. It was a shot of Reid, lying on the floor in his own blood. He had slash wounds covering his body, and below them they could see more injuries. There were collective gasps, and one of the lab assistants had to leave. It wasn't the severity of his wounds that made the picture so horrible though. It was the look on Reid's face.

His long hair was in his face, and it was dripping blood. His mouth was slightly open, and his lips were chapped. He didn't appear to be looking at anything at all, but they could see a resigned pain in his gaze. He looked tired, hurt, and hopeless. There was a sort of bleakness in his gaze, like there was no hope for him yet. Hotch couldn't help but wonder what sort of pain he had to be in to look like that.

J.J. had her mouth covered, and tears were welling in her eyes as three more pictures of Reid, from various positions came out. The last was the worst. His eyes were closed, and his body was limp. He looked as if he was dead. He could have been dead, for all Hotch knew. The next photograph was a black-and-white of a doll in a lacy dress. It looked somehow sinister, and there was an eerie resemblance between the doll's eyes and Reid's. Hotch placed it aside and brought out the next one.

"Oh, Morgan..."

The plaintive whisper came from J.J. She was staring at the picture before them. It was clearly Morgan, lying on the floor, face twisted in pain. His shirt was soaked in blood, and they could see it issuing from the welts that covered his body. His t-shirt was burned around the injuries, and it was clear what weapon had been used against him. The next was similar, but Morgan had managed to prop himself up on one elbow. His head was facing the ground, so they couldn't see the expression, but they could read his body language well enough to see that he was in considerable pain. The same newspaper could be seen spread over the ground, and they could see the puddle of blood in the corner of the photo. However painful it was for the team to look at Morgan looking so injured, so helpless, it was nothing compared to their reactions to the next one.

It was a shot of Morgan looking straight up into the camera. He must have been looking right at the un-sub, and his expression was terrifying. There was pure, unadulterated hatred spewing from his gaze. His face was angry, but it wasn't like any kind of anger they'd ever seen on him before. It wasn't a quick burning, in-the-heat-of-the-moment kind of anger. It was the cold-eyed wrath of someone who's been abused and beaten to the ground, but not defeated. Not quite yet. His look said that he would have vengeance, and as the team looked on, they couldn't help but think that he might.

The next photograph was of him lying on the ground, unconscious, blood coming from the back of his head.

That was the last image, but as Hotch reached into the envelope in a sort of a daze, one last thing fell out. It was a note, typed up in a gothic script. He read it aloud.

"Don't worry your head, Aaron dear. Derek and Spencey are still perfectly alive, if not well. I wouldn't let my most treasured guests leave this early, not when there are still so many games to play. Maybe I'll invite you over later, once my current game is done. I'm sure we could have lots of fun together. Until then you're just going to have to be patient." Hotch's voice grew grimmer with every word that left his lips, in contrast to the words themselves, whose tone was cheerful and light. Almost teasing.

No one broke the silence for a full minute, before Prentiss' voice issued across the room.

"I'm going to fucking kill him."

And that pretty much said it all.

* * *

**So, better than last chapter? Not sure how it turned out, but I liked the idea of her sending the team photos- it seemed like Miranda's style. **

**In other news, I am totally badass, and feel the need to talk about it. So I had my tae kwon do belt promotion, right? But it's in-class, so I didn't know what day it was. I thought it was tomorrow, but yesterday I discovered it was actually that day. At my class, the other girl up for promotion said something about it to me. It was then I realised I didn't know my one step sparring for the belt I was doing. But I acted all cool about it and told her I 'kinda forgot the order', and got her to show me about what they were. Then she asked me if I was gonna be okay, and I turned to face the front, pushed up my glasses, waited one over-dramatic second then said: **

**"Well, I guess I'm just going to have to fake it till I make it." **

**And felt like Horatio from CSI in an action/ maritial arts manga, and was sufficiently pleased with how cool I was. Then my badassness went even further, when I did all the stuff I didn't know by watching the other girl in the mirror and doing whatever she did. And that is how I do it. Yeah, that's right, I passed my test by cheating in tae kwon do. How do you even do that? **

**Anyways, the only person unimpressed by my ninja-ness was the review button. It had to beat me up a few more times then usual so I didn't get above my station, so now I need some help- please, please, PLEASE review. I don't wanna get my ass kicked again. The review button once beat up Chuck Norris and Bruse Lee at the same time with his matial arts superiority- and I suck. FML.**


	16. Chapter 16

**MERRY CHRISTMAS/ HAPPY HANUKKAH/ HAPPY WINTER SOLSTICE/ HAVE A GREAT BELATED BODHI DAY/ HAVE A FABULOUS YULE**

**Hey guys.. it's been a while, huh? Heh heh heh...**

**Basically, I haven't been doing so great recently (and it's surprisingly NOT because the review button finally killed me). I had a lot of work to do at school, so I stopped writing so that I would do better on my schoolwork, but the more I put off writing, the worse I did in school. This resulted in apathy and self-loathing, because I couldn't figure out why everything seemed so hard and I was so emotional all the time. What I didn't realise was that writing was pretty much my only outlet which allowed me to actually function as a semi-normal person. **

**Then, on top of that, I got a few reviews which (while being really valid, which I'll get into in a moment :D), pointed out a lot of stuff I'd done badly, and I just got even more apathetic because I began to feel like my writing sucked and no one wanted to read it. Plus I just realised that one of my friends has an account too and is WAY more popular, and I began to feel like I was a total fail. Anyways, to top all that off with sexual frustration and emotional confusion, I've been having a pretty shitty time of late. **

**Now, if you're actually reading this, which I doubt, you should know that I totally hear the complaints about Miranda getting boring and the plot getting stale. I realise that's REALLY valid, so I'm trying to do something about it now. Tell me if this one is any better. Also, you should know that I was kinda planning on ending Reid's physical torture here already, so all you lovers of realism despair not. I'm not going to use up another of his nine lives :). **

**All in all, it's good to be back (even if Fanfiction is being an asshole about posting stuff, not to mention glitching everywhere).**

**WARNING: More angst, angst, angst, angst, torture, the usual violence and such, yadda yadda, swearing**

**DISCLAIMER: I used to own Criminal Minds, then I took an arrow to the knee. **

* * *

Miranda stared at the screen, then let out an inhuman scream. She reached to the side, pale fingers blindly groping for something, anything, breakable. _Crash. _A glass vase. _Crash. _Her chair, tipping over as she propelled herself from it, exploding upwards and outwards. _Crash. _A lamp went flying across the room. _Crash. Crash. Crash. _

She let out another scream, face twisted in anger. Casting her eyes about for another victim to release it upon, she snatched up a cup and threw it clear through the glass divider which separated two of her rooms. She watched Gwendolyn scurry away, ducking, as if that would prevent her from being caught up in her mistress' temper tantrum. Miranda knew she wouldn't return until after the noises had stopped, and would warn the other help to do the same. The thought of them running in fear from her made her smile a bit, a wolfish grin that vanished the second she realised that they were not afraid of her, but what her father would do to them if they hurt her. This only served to add to her displeasure. Closing her mouth, she casually picked up the lamp she'd thrown earlier. Swinging it from side to side, she began marching after her maid, smashing things as she went.

Though rare, Miranda's rages were legendary. The servants still whispered about the last one, which had been two years ago. They didn't know what had caused that one, but there were mutterings that her father's new wife had tried to have her institutionalized. Privately, in a small tiny place which they didn't ever speak of- out of fear- they all wished she'd been successful. They saw what most didn't. They were the ones who had to deal with Miranda's terrifyingly accurate observations, her psychopathic ways of entertaining herself and insistence on perfection. They were in constant fear that her attention would turn towards them next. They knew that what she had said had been the reason Georgina had killed herself, and they knew she'd enjoyed it. In truth, the only reason they still worked there was the pay, and the fact that they knew if they quit, it would be ensured they never found work again. The only people who worked for the Muldensteins were ones with too much to lose and nowhere to go.  
They were glad, then, that Miranda didn't live at the main house most of the time. When she'd found her own place in the city they'd rejoiced. No more Miranda, no more of her taunting, no more of her punishments, no more having to hear everyone else simper about what a sweet, intelligent, wonderful young girl she was. Unfortunately, she still visited, always with her butler in tow, and always just when they'd thought she was gone for good.

Miranda lifted a bottle of vodka to her lips, and took a swig as the lamp by her side sent a fishbowl crashing to the floor. Normally she would have bent over to watch the little fish gasp for water and die, but she had larger prey in mind. She was mad, mad as hell, mad as a nest of hornets. Gwendolyn was in the kitchen gathering up her things when Miranda entered. Her dark brown eyes flickered from side to side as she tried to look for any means of escape. Miranda was wearing only expensive black and red lingerie and her hair was a white explosion, but this wasn't too strange for her. Neither was the sadistic, evil fire in her eyes. She swung the lamp in a long arc, smashing down on the counter beside the terrified woman's hand, which she quickly snatched back. Miranda approached slowly, enjoying the terror in her eyes. Gwendolyn crumpled like a paper bag, sinking to the ground.

"Please, Mistress, I didn't mean to do anything. Please, let me just clean this up, please. Please..." She let out a hysterical sob. There was something inhumane about Miranda's silence which was far more intimidating than any of the words that had ever been screamed at her by other's she worked for.

It was something predatory, whatever it was, like a snake waiting in the bushes, or a crocodile concealed just below the water's surface. Completely still. Waiting for a victim.

Miranda grinned and raised the lamp. But, just as she was deciding where to strike first, her smile flickered. She wasn't being intelligent. But she still wanted to have some fun... she was just starting to cheer up! There was nothing for it though, she'd just have to make do for now. The malevolent light returned to her eyes and she bent down, slowly, creeping, to eye level with the terrified maid, swinging the lamp back over her shoulder.

"Now look here, what a mess you've made! Why would you do that? I suppose the damage in going to have to come out of your paycheck. What a pity that is, my father always held your cleaning abilities in high esteem. Well, there's nothing for you to do but clean it up and beg my forgiveness for putting me through this traumatic experience."

Gwendolyn stared at her for a second, mouth slightly open, before she clumsily tried to find her way to her knees. She needed this job. She had four children and no husband, and her brother was a lazy, good-for-nothing slob. She couldn't let herself be fired. Clasping her hands in front of her, she began to speak in a trembling voice.

"Please, please, Mistress, forgive me for this terrible mess I've made. Please allow me to clean it up. I beg your forgiveness at my horrible mistake, and I truly hope one as beautiful and intelligent as yourself can bring yourself to forgive my foolishness." She hoped that appealing to Miranda's ego would work as well as it normally did.

Miranda rolled her eyes theatrically, bored already. But she had to finish up here before she could find something else to entertain herself with.

"Very well, I suppose I'll allow you to clean it up if you really, truly want to..." Here she turned to the maid and raised an eyebrow. Gwendolyn stammered out her line, recognising a cue after years of being around the girl.

"Oh, yes, nothing would please me more than to clean up this mess for you."

"In that case, I'll leave you to fix up here. And maybe, if you do a good enough job, we can keep this just between us."

With that she clacked off, high heels cracking against the hard floor. As she left, she smiled slightly, knowing that keeping something in-between them wasn't the blessing it made itself out to be. In reality, all this meant was that the maid now owed her a favor. And Miranda would find a use for it. She always did.

Flinging herself down on her bed with a dramatic sigh, her internal monologue (usually full of self-gratifying compliments and all the reasons she was brilliant), had become stale and boring. She didn't know what to do. She was having lots of fun with Spence, but she couldn't hold off the boredom for long. It snuck up on her like a thief in the night and stole away all her energy. It sucked all the fun out of life, and no matter how hard she tried to keep herself reserved and dignified, it was too great to fight. She HAD to entertain herself, she simply had to. She rolled around a few times in the sheets, then launched herself up from the bed and across the room. Pulling a pair of scissors off her desk, she contemplated the issue. Slowly, tenderly, distractedly, she drew the blade across her pale, perfect flesh. Circling it over her skin, she thought about what she could do to ward the boredom off. However, nothing she could think of would satisfy the restless energy coursing about her body. The scissors dug into her arm, biting casually at first, then with more vigor. She watched as a thin trail of blood chased itself down to her elbow disinterestedly. The problem was this power, this potent potion of desire and joy and power, that came over her. She wanted more, oh how badly she wanted more. The scissors pulled back, then came down again, the pain causing her some small consolation. It warded the boredom off a little.  
Oh, but she was going to stop that! It was aggravating trying to hide the delicate lines over her exposed arms, and she hated how meaningless all the fuss about it was. Why couldn't people just stay out of her way and let her do as she pleased. Immediately, she answered herself. _Because that would be no fun!_ That's why she liked Spencer so much, and that's why she still went to her parents' functions, still upheld meaningless protocol and still kept her calm detachment. Life's no fun without a little adversity.

She jumped up again, dropping the scissors which had lost her interest all of a sudden, and paced her room a few times before collapsing onto the floor.

There she lay, looking up to the ceiling, and decided she needed to have some fun. She was bored with this, she was bored with the rules she'd invented to a game she'd invented. She wanted to have fun again. And she was going to.

* * *

Reid blinked as the black clouds around his vision continued to dance their elusive dance. He wanted to follow them, somehow, but his thoughts were as colluded and strange as they were, and he couldn't quite figure out why. He was aware of things, but just fluttering of images, impressions, feelings. Someone was hurt. He felt a detached sense of grief that they were, but their name wasn't within his grasp, and he couldn't understand why he would be sad. There was a numbing sensation all about him, but he was also aware of a pain. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind something about pain receptors in the brain floated about for a few seconds before drifting back into the clouds. He felt himself lifted, slung, carried, or was that someone else? He felt sorry for them, whoever they were. But then that was gone too, and he was just an immobile strand of connected ideas sinking amongst a sea of facts and figures. And somewhere below all the facts, somewhere below the statistics, there was something else as well. Feelings, maybe. Or something else. God, perhaps. Or maybe just him. He wandered over, and down, down towards it, towards whatever was below the information, the layers of collected knowledge, whatever was underneath all of that.

He was gripped with a sudden desire to see it, whatever he'd been missing. He wanted to know what it was, what was there below all the useless, trivial thoughts. He travelled deeper and deeper, into the darkness, but there was something pulling him back. Some distraction, something that belonged to that other person. He pulled away from its insistent cries. He had to find out what was down there! All of a sudden it was of the utmost importance that he discover that one truth, that one truth below all the others. He knew to find it he just had to keep going down. But that thing, that irritating thing kept him just back. It called out at him, tugged at him, prodded him, until he heard something. He heard it call out to him, call out his name.

"Reid, Pretty boy, come on. Come on, you need to stay with me, Reid."

The voice sounded a bit desperate, and all of a sudden another name appeared. Morgan. That was right, that was Morgan, but what did it all mean? Why was he here, what was going on? His name was Reid, that was right, it fit, it clicked, and it sounded... right. But what was this, why was it right? He was confused right now, and he felt like there was something just out of his reach, just out of his grasp. He needed to figure it out, what was he missing? He felt his face wrinkle in a frown. Right, his face. His? Him? If it was his face, then was this his body? His pain?

All of a sudden, with a sick, rushing feeling, everything came back to him, and he awoke, spluttering. Morgan's face was hovering over him, concern and relief both evident. He had a faint sheen of sweat over him, and he looked terrible.

"Thank god, Reid, I thought I lost you for a minute there."

Reid blinked and swallowed down the dry taste in his mouth. He tried to move, but the minute he did it felt like someone was stabbing him all over. Clearly the pain had been evident on his face because Morgan pushed him down again.

"Don't try to move, you're too badly hurt."

Reid opened his mouth, but it took a few tries before he was able to muster the ability to speak. Only after Morgan had poured some of their water down his throat was he able to articulate himself properly.

"How long was I out?"

"A while. I was unconscious for a bit, and when I woke up you were barely breathing." Morgan's eyes were full of distress and hopelessness. "Reid... I don't know how much longer I can do this. I can't even bring myself to stand up anymore."

"We'll get through this." Even to him, Reid's voice sounded weak and pitiful. He hated how pathetic he was sometimes. Morgan let out a tired, slightly bitter, laugh.

"What, no statistic to back it up?"

Reid didn't say anything, because there was nothing to say. He had no statistic. Everything he knew, everything he held to be true, was telling him they weren't going to get out.

"You may have heard a bit about the... new evidence that was disclosed to us of late, but I want to stress that we should not give up. In fact, the killer's evident over-confidence is only going to work against them. Given this new turn of events, we've compiled a profile that should aid us immensely."

Hotch's grim voice echoed in the room. Many of the police officers were looking at him as if his strong, calm tone was a light guiding them. Quite the difference from when they first arrived, though still many had a faint air of suspicion around them. Prentiss scanned her tired eyes over the assembly. For the first time, she thought they might be onto something. They'd done it all, they'd re-thought themselves, they'd second guessed every assumption they'd made. The profile they'd come up with was a little vague still, but she had faith in it. If this all went wrong, if everything failed, at least Prentiss knew that the profile they'd come up with was solid. That they'd done everything they could. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hotch nod to her. She almost jerked. She'd forgotten she was presenting it in the absence of most of their team.

"We believe we're looking for a team of killers. There will be two of them, one dominant and one submissive. In this case, we are probably dealing with a brains-brawn team. Given the immense amount of damage to some of the bodies, not to mention the sheer ability to kidnap two trained FBI agents, we can deduce that at least one of them is extremely physically fit. In this case, we also believe that this is the submissive partner. Though this is often the other way round, the fact that most of the bodies only showed the signature bruising patterns of one offender, we can see that they are the one torturing the victims. However, on many of them we can see evidence that a different offender actually performed the final kill. This suggests that the less physically fit one gets the pickings, and the other is merely following directions."

She paused for a moment, and looked around the room. Most of the officers were writing things down, but a few were staring at her intently- and a couple even snidely. She felt a spike of disgust. Her teammates, her family, was in the hands of a psychopath who tortured people to death, and they were still opposing the team out of misguided loyalty to a station and a superior who had turned out to be a serial killer. She wanted to throw up, but continued instead.

"This first partner, the strong one, probably has a record. He is a male about thirty years of age, with training in some sort of fighting and a violent history. The second one is more interesting. They are the intelligent one. Probably less physically fit, and either older or younger than the partner, who they rely on for protection and the muscle to do the job for them. Highly intelligent, and most likely an outsider. They will be manipulative and slippery, with intense attention to detail, antisocial trends, and yet will be surprisingly charismatic. They are the one who displays both the near-neurotic cleaning tendencies and obsession with the perfection of the crime. We can see that the thing that really attracts them is not the killing itself, though this would probably provide stress-relief, but the challenge of out-smarting law-enforcement."

She took a deep breath, once again scanning the room. Even those who looked sceptical now had their eyes fixated on her. She knew that they were all listening, really listening, for once. Even if they denied it later, at least for now they were considering what the team was saying.

"They are a unique killer, as of now. It is this second partner who we believe to be responsible for the strangeness of the circumstances and the difference in MO. This is because they knew it would confuse us. The officers killed were just a ploy for attention. They were bored; they wanted more of a challenge, so they did something to get us involved. They've been one step ahead of us this whole time because they planned out every stage of this. There was an absence of any clear signature throughout the crime scenes because their signature _was_ the difference in the crime scenes. This person has what we profilers like the call the 'dark triad'. This means Machiavellianism, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and Antisocial Personality Disorder. We cannot stress enough how dangerous this person will be, no matter how physically un-imposing they may appear.

"Finally, the most important thing to remember is that we still don't know where the victims are being held. In all likelihood, the un-subs are at least moderately wealthy. It's very hard to conceal the amount of space they would need, not to mention soundproofing, in this sort of urban center. However, we doubt that this un-sub would allow them self to be too far away from the action, so they must have made it work somehow. It won't be easy to find though, so we need to capture them alive if at all possible, or we may never find the agents- or the crime scene."

She finished, still looking over the agents. Hotch stepped forward once again, his expression grim.

"From now on, be on the lookout for anyone that could match either of these descriptions. We will be looking into the photos for more conclusive evidence, and to glean any hint as to their surroundings. However, it is due to recognise that right now they've challenged us and are waiting for our response. Let's not make it a stupid one."

Prentiss frowned a little as the officers were dismissed. Those last lines weren't like Hotch. This case must be getting to him the way it was getting to the rest of them. She gathered up her papers, and left towards the BAU's conference room. They needed to discuss one last thing before they finally got some rest. Right now she was operating on caffeine and determination, a mixture that had gotten her into more than a few troublesome situations as a teenager. As she sat down and J.J. drew the blinds to enclose them from the lights and bustle of the rest of the station, she cast her eyes around at her team members. Rossi had employed his 'impassive face', but the shadows underneath his eyes, not to mention the worry in them, rendered it useless. Hotch's stone face was more successful. His grim gaze and permanently furrowed brow didn't belay the fear inside them all. It would have been impressive if Prentiss wasn't familiar with how they all dealt with issues. Hotch always shut down the emotional side of himself until the task was over. She only hoped he wouldn't have to last much longer. J.J., on the other hand, was more openly upset. Her blond hair was great, as usual, but it looked a lot messier. There was a chip in the nail polish on her middle finger, and she wasn't her usual bright self. She seemed subdued, tense.

Once they sat down, Hotch immediately began to speak. He was businesslike as always, but the edge in his voice he'd been hiding from the officers was immediately obvious to them.

"We need to talk about the press."

The team settled into an intense silence at the last word. Hotch paused before continuing.

"Our primary decision was to keep this shut down, so as to not give into the attention-starved nature of the un-sub. However, at this point I feel it is time to re-evaluate our choice. A lot has changed about our perception of this un-sub, and it may not be a good idea to keep on suppressing information. On one hand, I'd rather this get out on our own terms, and the press can be a useful tool. On the other, this is going to create chaos, and we're going to have to allot a great deal of our already stretched time to handling it."

"Personally, I don't think we should let it slip just yet. This offender is meticulous, and I don't think it's a good idea to have the officers spend their time answering the billions of useless phone calls we're going to receive. We've only just gained their confidence; I don't want to lose it again with something like this. All this will do is cause a media frenzy." Rossi leaned back in his chair, having said his piece. He was a little old-fashioned sometimes, he knew, but he didn't see the good letting shark- um, journalists rip them into small shreds on live T-V while they could be rescuing Reid and Morgan.

Prentiss glanced at J.J., but she didn't seem to be responding. That struck her as a little strange, given that she was their media liaison. She didn't call her out on it though, and instead flipped open her laptop to include Garcia as she spoke.

"I disagree, actually. Though these un-subs seem perfect right now, it's also true that we haven't really included the media- or the possibility that something or someone might be turned up by the public. We are, right now, operating under the assumption that the un-sub has not bragged to someone. We are assuming no one has seen someone matching our description, or that no one has seen someone doing something and no realised what it was. We've caught so many killers because of people seeing things, and right now we need every resource available." Prentiss leaned back in her seat as Garcia picked up where she left off.

"Isn't it a little irresponsible to know there's a killer out there and not warn the public? I mean, you guys know I hope more than anything that we get back Morgan and Reid alive, but what if we don't? That means that there's still a public menace out there, and we need to warn people about it... it could save lives."

There was a nod of appreciation from Hotch. The lives already lost were horrible, but if any more people died they were going on a fast-track straight to his conscience. They needed to do everything possible, even if that meant more work for them.

"But with what we've seen from this offender, it seems more reasonable to suggest that the hindrance the media will bring is going to far outweigh the good possible. Instead of expending effort warning future victims, we should put everything we have into preventing this un-sub from catching any more victims. Besides, it's unlikely that after two FBI agents they'll go back to the general populous." Rossi argued.

"J.J.- you're the expert here, what do you think?" Hotch intervened just as Prentiss was opening her mouth to respond.

The liaison started; as if she'd been asleep and he'd jerked her awake. She seemed flustered for a moment, then brushed her hair out of her eyes in an attempt to hide her brief lack of surety that fooled none of them.

"Well... I'd have to agree with Prentiss and Garcia. We need the media, and like it or not they're a necessary tool. There's a lot of pressure being put on the police department as is, what with Bloom. It's only a matter of time before they find something. We need this story to break our way, and that's not going to happen if we keep waiting. I can have my contacts on the phone, and within the hour I can get a press conference. Right now we're underestimating the power of the media. We can't have them using their influence against us. As is, we should also contact Morgan's family and Reid's mother. This is going to be nasty no matter what we do, and I would much rather control it as much as possible beforehand."

"J.J.'s right." Hotch's tone was grim. "Rossi, you and Delaire seem to get along well. You talk to her. Prentiss and Garcia, work on what info we want released while J.J. sets up the conference. I'll go talk with the rest of the department, and ensure our policy and profile are being understood. After I'm done, Prentiss, come with me. We need to interview Bloom. He probably doesn't know anything about the other killers, but if he blocked any info to hide his own misdeeds, we need to know about it."

The team nodded and started gathering together their things. However, just before J.J., the last one, walked out the door Hotch stopped her.

"Wait just a second, J.J."

The blonde turned, a little surprised. She sighed internally, knowing what was coming. She'd been so out of it recently, so messed up by this case, and she wasn't doing well. Everything around her reminded her of the last time Reid was kidnapped. And those dogs... she could swear she saw them behind her all the time. Beastial reminders that last time, it was her fault. She wasn't doing her job well, and now it was time to face the music.

"Yes, Hotch?" She turned to him, trying to cover up her despair with a helpful, bright smile.

"How much sleep are you getting?"

Hotch's face was inscrutable. J.J., on the other hand, gave him a quizzical look.

"Uh, well, as much as the case will allow. Of course, it's been hard for us recently, but don't worry. I'm putting in one hundred percent effort and-"

"No, I could get that answer from anyone in this station if I wanted it." Hotch interrupted. "I asked how much sleep _you_'ve been getting."

J.J. was a little taken aback. She opened her mouth to answer, but had to pause to consider... last night, the night before, the night before that. She blinked. She honestly couldn't remember the last time she'd slept. She'd been working, but when she hadn't, the nightmares and thoughts of 'what if' had kept her awake... so she usually ended up working or playing stupid games on her iPhone.

Hotch's lips made an unnatural twisting motion, which after a few seconds J.J. recognised as a small smile. At the back of her mind, she thought to wonder how long it had been since she'd seen Hotch smile. A long time.

"That's what I thought. After you've taken care of this, go back to your hotel and don't come back here until you've gotten at least ten hours."

She opened her mouth to protest, but Hotch interrupted her before she could speak.

"And J.J.? That's an order."

Jenifer thought about protesting again, but instead just gave Hotch a tight smile.

"Yes sir... I'll try." Then, as if it was an afterthought, she turned around again. "And Hotch? Thank you."

* * *

Greg cackled with delight as he read his next instructions, given to him via an email from his most Beloved and Revered. This he liked... though it wasn't his usual style, it was the nature of the calling that caused him such excitement. It wasn't just the delicious look of fear in those disgusting, enormous eyes that he was looking forward to this time. No, more than that. He was looking forward to change in the pace. Finally, after all the skirting around and playing games, they were going to show their... guests... who was really running this show. Gone would be the illusions of a chance at survival. Gone would be the shimmer of hope at the end of the dark tunnel. Gone would be their insolence, their arguments, their reasoning. Now, at last, he could have his control. He could look at the dimming light in their eyes and know that they were nothing more than rats to stomp on. And even as they squeaked in defiance, he would crush them.

But only if his Mistress agreed.

Only if Her, in all Her Perfection, allowed him to do so. Only then would he act as he wished, only when given Her leave. After all, the pleasure that their pain would bring him was fleeting, ephemeral at best. His devotion to Her was not, could never be, so petty. No, his dedication and Her Beauty went on for infinity. They stretched over the universe, until all the petty little problems of this earth and the sensations the brought were merely specks of dust on the ground. Out of everything, out of it all, She was the only thing that was important. The fact that others could not see this, the fact that some even questioned her brought him no end of fury. His rage at the thought took him over for a moment, and his fist struck out. It smashed through one of the flimsy bamboo room dividers that lined his yoga studio. He felt the anger that had consumed him seconds ago bleed out of his body.

Calmly, he picked up the splintered pieces of wood from the floor and gathered them on a chair, tutting as he did so. _What a pity... This is exactly why She always tells me to quell my rages. Of course, how could I doubt Her. But now look, I've gone and caused problems again._

Greg flipped open his cell-phone and typed in the number for the antique repair shop he liked to use. Or rather, the one She had recommended for him. As he spoke quickly with the man on the other line in Mandarin, he considered her instructions once again. By the time he was finished arranging things with the other man, his wicked smile was once again fixed upon his face. Glancing in the mirror, he noticed his pupils had become dilated.

He was going to love seeing the panic and fear in those horribly large, nauseatingly innocent eyes. The pain, he had seen, and he was bored with it by now. Now he wanted something else. He wanted the man to give up. To acknowledge him as master, to stop questioning Her and to give up. He wanted to see the Doctor broken and afraid, with no one near him to come to the rescue. The delicious thoughts washed over him as his pants once again grew tight. Oh, he was going to enjoy what was to come in every way possible.

* * *

Reid lay on the cold floor, drifting in and out of sleep. He had tried to rest properly, he really had. But even with Morgan's calm, steady breathing from the other side of the room, he couldn't bring himself to follow the other man's example. The pain coming from every part of his body, the constant fear that any moment the door would open and he'd be forced through another ordeal. That was hard. But it wasn't what was really wearing down on him. No, that wasn't something quite as easy to coin. It was something more... a dark terror that crept up from somewhere deep down. A crawling feeling that whispered things in his ear. It was a fear, but not a concrete one. It was similar to the feeling he used to get when crouched in a corner, hiding from bullies. Or later, curled in a ball in his bed. Insecurities whispered in his ear, things that he didn't understand washed through his mental barriers like they were made of wet paper. It was everything he couldn't conceive, couldn't explain away, couldn't repel with logic.

And his weakness was killing him.

He jerked as he thought he heard a faint clicking noise. Heart hammering, he sat up, muscles screaming. Body totally tense, he waited for what seemed to be an hour, but must have only been a minute, before letting himself rest back on the cool floor. Laying there, heart still beating at a tempo far too quick for his liking, he tried to let his mind wander. His thoughts, usually so keen to distract his attention, now seemed to drift through the recesses of his mind powerlessly. They floated soundlessly, unable to capture his notice, unable to distract him-

Click.

There it was again!

This time he knew he'd heard it. A faint clicking issuing from, well, somewhere. His body screamed in pain as he raised himself, once again, from the ground. Slowly, he lifted his torso and arms. Something inside him, some irrational place below all his logical processes, was demanding his silence. But even as he strove to maintain the void of no noise, the quiet pressed against him like a physical being. It strained against his mind, strained against the border which kept it as merely an idea, and became something very real. Something very real, and very terrifying. Even as Reid's instincts told him to keep as quiet as humanly possible, not to make a sound or death would find him, every fibre of his being told him to break the horrid, oppressing silence. Every part of his soul screamed for him to stop this torment and break this fragile dictator.

Every muscle within him was tight, crying at him to move and to stay still all at the same time. It was some sort of terrible war which held him here. Held him here, trying desperately to convince himself none of it existed, that it was all in his head. Just his mind, just his mind playing tricks with him. _It's all in my head, all in my insane, messed up, stressed out, traumatized head... _

And then, just when he thought he could take no more, no more of the stabbing, screeching silence, he heard it again.

Click.

That time it was certain. That time, at least, he was sure. The click had echoed out in the space like a gunshot. He cast his eyes over to where Morgan lay, still soundly asleep. For a couple seconds he watched his friend's chest rise and fall, almost peacefully. He considered waking him up, but dispelled the urge immediately. Whatever new Hell was waiting for Reid outside that door, unlocking the bolts ever so slowly, he could handle himself. It was his burden to bear, and he wasn't going to force Morgan through it as well because of his own weakness. He took one last look at Morgan's slumbering form before returning his gaze to the doorway.

Click.

He tensed again, pulling himself into a more upright position. And waited.

Click.

Clunk.

At last, the final lock fell out of place. Reid wasn't breathing as the large metal door shuddered for a moment before, ever so slowly, swinging open. Inch by inch, centimetre by centimetre, it fell wide, until a shadowy figure was visible in the half-light. For a fleeting second, Reid saw the dark hair and broad shoulders and thought it was Hotch. Come to rescue them from this insanity, come to save them despite the odds. Then he blinked again and it was Greg. Greg, come to torment and torture. Come to hurt and strike fear and loathing into them.

The butler stepped into the room, steps padded like a cat's. He turned, and looked over at Morgan sleeping in the corner. Ignoring him, Greg stepped forwards towards Reid. Reid felt his heart clench inside his chest, like someone had grabbed it from behind. His breath came out in shaky gasps as Greg leaned in, towards him, closer and closer. He tried to pull himself backwards, but his muscles had stopped obeying him. His chest rose and fell faster and faster as he tried to control his reaction to the terrible, deadly force before him. Struggling for the command over his own body, he parted his lips slightly to ask a question. However, just as he did, Greg leaned in again. Past his face, til his breath was tickling the hairs at the base of Reid's neck. Then, face millimetres from Reid's, he whispered in his ear.

"Quiet now, we wouldn't want to wake dear Derek, would we?"

The threat was inherent in his tone. Reid's heart palpated as he shook his head on reflex. His limbs were crying at him to run, hide, flee. But his mind wasn't strong enough to give the necessary order, and he remained where he was. Cowering on the ground, heart bursting from his chest, frozen by the man and his dangerous smile. Greg's teeth flashed white in the grey, and he unfurled from his position crouching over the smaller man to a standing one. When he'd, ever so slowly, stood up, he beckoned for Reid to do the same.

It took a moment for Reid to process the request. Once he had, though, he didn't think twice before attempting to comply. In this case, for all his intellect and knowledge, he was inferior. Greg left no doubt that here, Reid had no power. Here, he was just prey to the predator. However, when he tried to lift his body, his arms gave out. He was too weak, his body too damaged. He raised his large, amber eyes to meet the man's, trying to read his reaction. The butler just grinned again, teeth like fangs glimmering out from his face. Then he bent down and picked Reid up as if he was no more than a feather.

Reid would have felt demeaned, hanging from the man's arms bridal style, if he wasn't in so much pain. If he wasn't so scared, so tired, so weak, so hurt, so... If he wasn't so pitiful, he supposed.

Greg closed the door as gently as he'd opened it. Reid was distractedly impressed that he managed to do so without putting him down. Then they walked down the metal corridor, turning one corner, until they reached an unfamiliar door. Reid's mind was haywire with adrenaline and confusion. _Where is he taking me? Is Miranda here? Is this a challenge? Why didn't he wake up Morgan? What's behind this door? What more are they going to put me through? What are they planning?_ He didn't understand, and that scared him. It scared him a lot.

When they reached it, Greg set him down on the ground. It was a surprisingly gentle motion, but Reid wasn't fooled. The man cared nothing for his well-being. He considered trying to run for a moment, but it was stupid. A ludicrous idea, at best. He couldn't even stand, what chance did he stand? No, better to wait and analyse the situation, then try to use his only weapon to free himself. His brain, that is. Greg opened the door, the yanked Reid to his feet and guided him within in silence.

The room was completely empty, and painted all black. It was fairly small, only a couple of metres wide, with slate floor. It was as bare as a room could be. Greg pushed him to the ground, then gave him a smile. Reid looked up at him, a terrifying fear dawning upon him. Greg stepped back, and began to shut the door.

"Please... no. Not this..."

The voice was so small and pathetic, so utterly contemptible, that it took Reid a second to figure out it was his own. Greg only smiled his shark smile before closing the door behind him, locking it with a terrible finality.

Leaving Reid alone, in complete and utter dark.

He began to hyperventilate. Calming himself, he dragged his body over to the wall. He groped along with his fingers, trying to cling to anything, unable to see what it was he was trying to cling to. He rested against it, pushing away his irrational fears. Or at least, trying to.

Voices swirled around him, darkness crept into his vision, and all sorts of visions crawled past his eyes as he tried to focus them on something, anything, real. Shuddering as he tried to quell the panic building up inside him, he cast his mind around.

Strangely, and horribly ironically, the only thing he could here was the soundtrack of a memory.

A memory of Morgan's voice, terribly distorted by his fear and paranoia, of a happier time so long ago.

Morgan's voice, laughing, poking fun.

_"Wow, Reid, you really are afraid of the dark, aren't you?" _

* * *

**Santa might not come for you tonight, but I, your Necromancess, will deliver no less than 17 minutes after midnight! (in my time zone...)**

**If you (and I doubt you did), actually read my rant at the start, you would know how sorry I am about the chapter's lateness. If you did not, feel free to do so now... I hope it's better than the past few have been. I've finally got some proper inspiration for it, so yeah... Hope you like. **

**Anyways, for Christmas I've asked the Review Button not to beat my up again for not updating, but right now it's waving a saudering iron, so I feel like I should have been more specific... So, yeah. Damn. Be seeing yous!**


	17. Chapter 17

**He-ey, my darlings! **

**Today's chapter is brought to you by (ever so slightly...?) faster updates (not really :O) and the creepy image of Hotch as a lollipop! (you'll get it in a minute)**

**I'm really sorry, once again, for the late release. This time I have a valid excuse though... I had really important exams and four consecutive debate tournaments. I would just like to take this opportunity here to say how much I value all of your readership (possibly a word?) and actually wasting your time on my work... not to mention putting up with my temperamental/ ****pretentious/ whiny tendencies. **

**THANK YOU!~**

**WARNING: If you're actually reading this story, by now you should be acustommed to my violent/swearing/angsty tendenies...**

**DISCLAIMER: Own not, but thinks that if I did the recent episodes would be less formulaic.**

* * *

Miranda looked out the car window longingly. The sleek limo glided through the city like a swan over the surface of a pond, serene in the moonlight. Except the city outside could hardly be considered a pond. Too busy, too bright. Too dirty. She missed her other cities. She'd never wanted to move to Seattle, it was boring, so very boring. She'd preferred Paris, or Tokyo. But they couldn't stay there forever, because her father's business was centered here. She she'd found a way to entertain herself. Oh, and was she ever glad she had. She couldn't wait to be back home with her dearest Spencer. He must be growing so lonely in his little room, all by himself in the dark. She shivered with delight at the thought. The driver, a new one, noticed the tremor.

"Are you cold, mademoiselle?" She smiled a little at the title. Someone must have informed him of the preferred way to address her. "Should I turn up the heater?"

She smiled and shook her head, before pausing to reconsider her dismissive action. No, he was adorable. He deserved a reply.

"No thank you, darling."

There. Now she'd re-affirmed his worth as a person by responding, she went back to her musings. Her little Spencer must be so cold. He was probably crying. She hoped she would be able to see that. She loved the taste of tears. Like water, but with a faint saltiness and something else. Something she couldn't put a word to, but it was what she imagined despair would taste like. Someone should make her a perfume out of that taste. She'd wear it everywhere. Miranda was sure that her little genius' tears would taste a lot better than the others she tasted. Even the younger ones, who pretended to be so innocent and screamed so much didn't have his puppy-dog-esque air of helplessness. To be honest, the younger ones had always bored her. That's why she didn't take them. They were all the same. The begging, the pleading, it was all so passé. They just got oh so annoying, oh so fast.

She considered the other members of her Precious' team. The older one, Aaron, would be fun. But he would be hard to break. He'd been through so much already, and it'd probably get boring waiting for his will to give out. Chances are she'd kill him too fast, and then all the fun would be gone. Plus, Greg would get tired of him soon, and would kill him before she'd gotten a proper shot. Then again, if she threatened he butler enough, he might stay out of the way. She could have a lot of fun then. If she managed to hold out on her urges, it would be lovely! Like a lollipop… if you resisted the urge to bite down, crack it open, you could have the delicious flavour for hours. She'd like that. But she'd need something to tide her over while she slowly broke him down.

The young one would be nice for that. Jennifer. She hadn't had a girl for a while. The last one had been that policewoman, and she'd been lame. Too tough, too posturing, too easy to break. Like a hard, but very brittle stone. Just smash it with a harder rock and it was dust. Boring. Jenny (yes, that's what she'd call her), would be more interesting. So soft, but so professional. It would be fun to see how long before her heart gave out and she gave up. Either way, she'd have lovely screams with such a nice voice. Miranda had always liked her voice. It was like a dove cooing, but lower and more down to earth. She wondered it the liaison had ever sung anything. She hoped so, singers were a lot of fun to play with. She doubted Spencer sung much. He had a nice voice, but it wasn't lovely like Jenny's.

The other blonde would be fun too! Miranda loved the technical analyst's clothing, but didn't like her very much. She hated fat people. Penelope wasn't so bad, but even a little bit of chubbiness could spell disaster when it came to Miranda's opinion of you. They were gross, and lazy. And not beautiful. Above all, Miranda coveted pretty things. Pretty things like Spencer. Ugly people should go die. But not in her sight. It might mare her vision of things that were beautiful, and that would be a true tragedy. But Penelope would be fun to play with. So bubbly, and she was sure they could talk about fashion and modern design together for hours. Also, she probably had a low pain tolerance, despite having been shot. It would be nice to have someone with an optimistic view of humans and less experience of being hurt to play with. She would simply die of happiness- or more likely, Penelope would.

She laughed a little at her own joke, which caused the cute driver to give her a concerned look. She flashed him a smiled, and he melted back into his seat. She liked the effect she had on the young man. He was almost as cute as Spencer, but he was more similar to Derek in actual looks. She considered him thoughtfully. Maybe she could have some fun with him someday. She'd enjoy that. But he was too close to her, it would cause problems if anyone made a connection. And Spencer's team would certainly do that. She frowned internally.

Putting her thoughts back on the team, she considered David. She didn't think he'd be much fun. She didn't think he was very good looking, and he was too old and successful to have many regrets to exploit. Or a very large fear of dying. And that just meant he'd be extremely boring to play with. She turned her attention to the last member, Emily. Such an interesting history, and one that the team knew so little about. It was so hard to find information on the woman, that even with her skills and… resources, she hadn't managed to discover much. She liked Emmi. She'd had such a great life, and she was so pretty looking. Miranda would love to play with her. So many ways to torture and torment. But she was so strong, so it would be such a long, joyous period for Miranda. She was sure the woman had been hurt before, but Miranda doubted it was anything that her art could not exceed. It would be a lovely challenge.

But still, she was pleased with her choices. Miranda love Spencer, she loved his eyes and his brain and his gorgeous hair. But, above all, she loved his past. So full of hidden delights and delicious pains. And yet, he still retained that playfully innocent temptation. She wanted to ruin him, break him for once and for all, the way when someone sees a clean, white sheet they can't help but want to splash black paint over it. Stain it. Change it. Mark it. That sweet temptation to wreck anything pure, anything naïve, anything innocent. It filled her up to the brim, made her want to giggle and roll on the ground in euphoria. It was hard, during their talks, not to stab him, dig into him them and there. Even better than playing with him, though, she enjoyed talking to him. So smart, so articulate, even while terrified. The first person to keep up with her in a conversation, to watch her, analyse her, the way she analysed them. It was a more refined delight that she took in talking to him, much more civilised then the base desire to destroy that he brought as well.

It was clear why she'd chosen Her Dear Spencer, but she'd had a much harder time deciding on Derek. She'd originally suspected that she'd have much more fun with Emmi, and still felt she would. But his brotherly affection towards Spencer had tipped the scales in his direction. She loved playing with people's relationships, and this was one she couldn't bring herself to miss out on. On top of that, she didn't think she'd be able to contain herself with two such interesting toys to play with. It would be too much for her to handle. Or, more importantly, for Greg to handle. She'd also chosen Derek because he was a nice, simple tool for her butler to play with while she had some more… complicated fun with the Dear Doctor. Derek had straightforward, easy to exploit past traumas and a nice, simple, decent personality. He was definitely good looking, though Miranda preferred Spencer, and was also smart enough not to offend her unduly.

She was bored with him though. He was holding Spencer up too much. Hopefully, by removing him, she could finally have some real fun with her Darling.

Miranda watched as the lights spun by her and the sun slowly lowered itself to the horizon. It was going to be a good night. Bored again, and unable to contain her excitement should she continue thinking about her Darling Doctor all alone and scared in the dark, she casually switched on the television in the car. It was set to a news station, which she regarded with some distaste and a clear lack of any real interest, until she noticed the newest story. She turned the volume up as she watched Jenny speak to a crowd of journalists. Smiling, she stared intently at the screen, leaning forward slightly.

Oh, things were about to get interesting. Just when she'd begun mixing things up on her end, the opposing team had made their move. Finally, the pace was picking up.

* * *

Reid drew his legs up into his chest. It was the first movement he'd made in… in he didn't know how long. It seemed like he'd been trapped in the dark for years, but for all his intelligence he couldn't figure out how long it had been. He was crushed into a corner, one of the ones across the room from the door- he thought. At first he'd figured it to be a good idea, being away from the door where he wouldn't be surprised by anyone. But now he was regretting his choice. Any contact, by anyone, seemed like a good thing right now. If only he could drag himself back closer to the door. But every time he tried to rise, he felt something prickling the back of his neck. All of a sudden he felt very vulnerable, and he started hearing the whispers of movements in the shadows. As soon as he tried, he fell back into his corner. Huddled. Not protected, but the closest to it he could achieve.

He tried to tell himself it was all in his head, but then he felt the cold, long fingers of something gripping his wrist. Or heard a voice echoing in the darkness… a deep voice, which squealed higher than any child. It was quiet, hard to hear, but the words kept getting louder. Straining his ears in the dark, sometimes he thought he could make out a few words. But no matter how hard he tried to understand what it was saying, the language it was talking in, who it sounded like, no matter how loud it got, he couldn't. He couldn't find an order to the sounds. And each time he thought there was a rhythm, it faded back into the silent. Then he was left there, with only the sound of his heartbeat to listen to.

It wasn't just the dark, he realised, but the silence. Every time he turned, moved even slightly, the sounds he made seemed to be amplified a thousand times. Like they were giving away his presence, to something hiding just out of sight. A couple of feet away, watching him. Perfectly still. Perfectly silent. Perfectly dangerous. And everything he did gave him away, gave it a chance to get closer to him. All of a sudden he felt a faint breeze of air brush over his face. His heart started, lurching his chest upwards as his lungs followed suit. It was as if something had breathed on his face. Something, inches away from his face. So close, so close. Close to touching him. Looking at him, into his soul, into his self. Judging him in the dark.

_All you have to do is reach out your hand, Reid, just reach out your hand. _He tried to reason with himself again. _Nothing's there. Come on, you know how many mythical creatures people have reportedly seen. You know how many have turned out to be fake. That's a majority. There's nothing there. You're being ridiculous._

_All you have to do is stick out your hand. Feel the air. There's nothing there, nothing but your own fears. _

_Nothing but all your fears._

Then he felt something brush his face.

Letting loose a piercing scream, he covered his face with his arms and brought his knees closer to his chest. There was something there, there was something there. Right there, in the dark. He tried to reason, but the facts that were supposed to help him were elusive, just out of reach. Floating in the dream world, out of his head and into the Void. The Void he hid from, the Void the facts were supposed to defend him from. But it was here now, so close to him, and it was sucking him in. Scrabbling at the sides, he tried to pull himself away from the lip. The force, the sucking force, yanking at every nook and cranny of his very self pulled him under. He came up for air, once, twice, but each time it was harder, and the force grew greater. The next time his head surfaced, he took one last breath of clean logic. Then his limbs were ripped from his body, and fingers and toes from those. His body was covered by tears, violently struggling to be free from one another.

He felt as the fibres of his being came apart. He felt as his self was separated into molecules. Until he was nothing, just the remains of a person being washed from side to side in the storm of panic. Swirling, disappearing down the drain. And with every blow he sank deeper until he could no longer even consider the idea of a surface somewhere above him. He couldn't even consider the purpose of fighting back anymore, and just fell back into the madness with what would be peace. What would be peace, if it wasn't so terrifying. Flying into the unknown, the depths of his consciousness he hadn't even been aware existed.

Then he caught a glimpse of something. Something familiar, something ordered, something beautiful.

A faint bluish light surrounded it. It was a number, lost in the blackness that was everywhere and the redness that came from somewhere. He lost sight of it again, but the glow drew him in. Glimmering, ephemeral in his vision but eternal and remaining in nature. Perfect. Ordered. Logical. Reasoned.

He pulled himself towards it, and as he grew closer, it all started to make sense again. He remembered- vaguely, but surely- who he was, where he was, what he was there for. He recalled from somewhere deep inside him, he recalled everything.

And then the madness began to tug again. And then the panic set in once again. And then he was pulled under, pulled away, pulled into the sea of confusion and fear. Everything he'd remembered, everything he was, was stripped from him and he was floating again. Floating, being torn apart all over again. Memories flashed by him, but he wasn't sure whose they were. A mother, crying and yelling while standing on a chair. Boys, pushing and pulling at a smaller one. Test scores. So many perfect test scores. The same boy, crying in the dark on his bed. Wondering why no one liked him. The images sped up. A needle, inserting into skin. A mirror being smashed. A man laughing. More men, and a few women, all holding weapons. Writing on paper, profiles. Work. Badges. Another needle, a shaking hand. The boy, a man now, again in the dark, but no longer crying. Now he was simply gazing forlornly at a lamp, full of self-loathing. Too old for tears, but not for sadness.

Flying backwards, forwards, every direction at once, he was separated from every thought, action, feeling of the man. The memories began to fade, and a part of him welcomed the darkness. The lack of anything. The sheer chaos, the madness, brought a lack of pain. And as he gave into the panic, as he let himself go, he smiled ever so faintly.

Back in the dark room, far below the surface of Seattle, Doctor Spencer Reid kneeled over, unconscious.

* * *

Morgan's vision blurred a few times as he blinked his eyes. His muscles ached from the cold, hard floor. It seemed really unfair to him that even though he was in so much pain from the multiple wounds over his body, he still had to deal with the mundane pains associated with sleeping on the ground. He closed his eyes again. Something felt... wrong. _Of course something feels wrong, you moron. You don't need to remind yourself the situation you're in. _Still, he couldn't shake off the feeling that when he looked around he was going to be unpleasantly surprised. He lay there instead, and moments turned into minutes. He was just too worried to actually face whatever he was worried about. Grumbling at himself, and his own cowardice, he opened his eyes.

"Reid? Are you awake yet, Pretty Boy?"

His words echoed in the empty space. Empty. Devoid of other forms. Immediately, he knew what was wrong. Heart hammering, he sat up, no longer concerned with his aching muscles. No longer concerned with anything but where Reid was, what they were doing to him, and why Morgan wasn't awake when it happened. Trying to calm himself down, he reminded himself that right now the un-subs were engaged in this 'game'. He had no reason to doubt that this was merely the next challenge. No reason to doubt that Reid was, once again, in the midst of intellectual combat with Miranda. No reason to doubt that anything was any more wrong than it had been before he'd awoken.

Sighing, he leaned back against the wall. Nothing he said or did now would change what was going on. It was strange, before now he'd thought that the situation had been the worst possible. But now, somehow, not knowing what was going on made it a thousand times worse. Each time that Miranda had come to collect Reid for her own sadistic pleasures, he hadn't known what was happening to him. So why was it so much worse not to know now? Why was it that now, of all times, his heart was pounding as if he could see Reid being tortured before his eyes? Why was it worse not knowing what was going on than knowing his friend was in danger for sure? For all he knew, Greg had taken some form of pity on them and had allowed him a bathroom break. On the other hand, it was equally possible that the un-subs had decided to change the game in some way.

Morgan scanned his knowledge of the pair in a desperate attempt to figure out what was a likely continuum to their psychosis, but for all his training he couldn't think clinically about them. Not the way Reid could. All of a sudden he was overwhelmed by how much he relied on Reid. Morgan was always the more assertive one, and had always wanted to protect the other man. Now, however, he felt useless in the face of this situation. Without Reid, he didn't know if he would survive this.

Resting his head on the cool wall behind him, he calmed his thoughts. Now was not the time to lose it. Mentally flicking through his psychological defence procedures, he focused his mind on detaching himself from the problem at hand. He needed to be calm, collected. Chances are Reid was fine- and even if he wasn't, Morgan freaking out wasn't going to do anything about it. What he needed to do here was keep his head. Protect his mind. Calm his body. This was not the time to panic. Any second now, Reid could walk back through that door in any condition. Morgan needed to be prepared for that, for him. He needed to be ready if he wanted to protect anyone.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

It was, by Morgan's estimation, at least three more hours before anything changed.

His eyes cracked open when he heard the bolts clanking. He was slightly surprised, having never registered actually shutting them. Sitting up straighter, he tried to bite down on the hope that was welling up inside him. Welling up and preparing him for an emotional flood. The more he hoped, the worse it would be when things went wrong. And letting either Miranda or Greg see that would be a catastrophe which could cost his life and that of his best friend. He had to do what he was paid to, now more than ever. No longer was he going to let Reid talk for him. He had to get them out of this.

He took another breath.

If only he could convince himself that he could.

_This is silly, _Morgan told himself._ Come on, you're both members of one of the most elite teams in the world, who happen to specialise in exactly this type of situation. You're Derek Morgan, for fuck's sakes. Since when have you had issues with self-confidence? _He sighed. He knew exactly when he had, and it wasn't a time he liked to look back on. Forcing himself to focus, he finally managed to slow the barrage of nervous, panicky thoughts. This wasn't all about him. Reid was in this too. Not to mention the other people killed by these monsters, and those that would be killed if they didn't manage to stop them. Right now, he needed to protect all of them. He needed to use everything he had. He wasn't a genius like Reid, but he wasn't born yesterday either. He could handle this.

The final bolt clicked open and Greg strode in, wearing a white suit and matching top hat. Morgan stood up to meet him. There was a tense moment as the two men looked at each other.

Morgan's gaze was steady and determined. Greg's was slightly less confrontational than Morgan had become accustomed to. Instead, it held an edge of barely suppressed glee. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Morgan's stomach, and a sudden certainty came crashing down on him like the gate to an insurmountable fortress. He wasn't going to like where this was going, and Reid's disappearance was no mere coincidence or oversight. Morgan broke the silence.

"No weapon this time?"

Greg smiled his chilling smile.

"I hardly think I require one."

Morgan would have to be a moron to miss the implications of Greg's words. If he tried anything, Reid would suffer.

"And why is that?" He asked anyways, waiting to see the psychopath's response.

"Let's not play these games. In your state I could easily overpower you. What you should be more concerned about right now is what's missing from this equation. Notice anything… off? Missing? Out of place?"

"Yes, I have. Where is he?"

"Who?"

There was a faint electric buzz in the air as Morgan's nerves became taunt. Heart racing, all he could do was wonder what Greg was playing at as he began to speak.

"Don't play stupid. Reid. My partner. What have you done with him?"

Greg mimed confusion, but underneath his acting Morgan could sense the same self-satisfied air. Like a cat, smiling in the darkness. Knowing you know it did something, but that there's nothing you can do about it.

"I have simply no idea who you're talking about. Personally, I was speaking of how little you've seen of Miranda, my own… partner, you could say. And I assure you, she is very, very existent."

Morgan gritted his teeth. It was clear Greg was lying, so any ploy to make Morgan doubt himself was vastly unlikely to succeed. However, this was going to prove irksome. He hated to imagine where this was going. And what was happening to Reid while they went through all this bullshit.

"Let's get this over with. What are you here for?"

It normally wouldn't be safe to be so direct to Greg, but in the man's elated mood, the risk of it going sideways was significantly lessened. Morgan hoped.

Fortunately, the man's smile broke through again.

"Just making sure you're comfortable, and informing you that you will be seeing m'lady shortly."

Morgan glowered at his retreating back as the man turned on his heel and exited.

_Where are you Reid?_

* * *

Time passes, slowly, days dripping between fingers clawing at clutching at them. Trying to use them, to keep them, to stop them from dripping away and down the drain.

But they drip.

Away from hands, contorted with the effort of trying to hold on to them.

Away from police officers, rushing around a station. Away from the team as they rush even faster, to accomplish something, to find something. To rescue someone. The only thing upstaging the speed of feet tapping on the linoleum floor is the noise of phones ringing. Voices, talking, so fast. A flurry of papers, judgement passing on each syllable. Thoughts, boredom, false hope intrigue. All flying, thick, rushing.

Until the scurrying insects slow, and thin out. Until they begin to yawn, until they leave. Lights switched off, and only the most necessary of the station's functions are kept working. Drunks are tossed in cages, arguing blurrily. A stab victim is brought in. A blond woman sleeps deeply, if not soundly, away from the fears that plague her waking like.

And all the while, newspaper printers click and clack. News is made, in black and white. As the early morning hours peek past their soft bed of clouds, they are distributed. Each flying on the tired arms of its chosen messenger. Each messenger, tired, grumpy, and unaware. Unaware of what they held, and what would begin once those papers reached their destinations.

Away from it all, crouched in a corner, is a tousled, beaten mind. In the dark, alone. Awake, finally. And scared. With fear so palpable and so bitter on his tongue, he wants to spit into the dark. Woken from nightmares and woken from a blissful, uncaring void. Mind racing quicker than most are able. In the dark for hours, a night and a day, and perhaps more.

Knowing not the problems of the outside world, and worse for it. Because problems are distractions.

Reid would kill for a distraction from the fear.

* * *

**I know this is probably a super dispapointing chapter, but I'm going on an academic trip for a week tomorrow, so I figured I should give my darlings something before I left. (Before you yell at me, you should know I am already bleeding from the knife wounds inflicted upon me by the Reivew Button) **

**Heheh... sorry?**


	18. Chapter 18

**SO, I know I haven't updated in a while again... sorry. I'm just very, VERY busy. :'(**

**WARNING: The usual swearing, torture, general sickness...**

**DISCLAIMER: Don't own CM. At all. Ever. **

* * *

It was dark when Reid opened his eyes. But that wasn't surprising. It was always dark now. For so long, so dark. Sometimes he thought he saw bright strands of light dancing across his vision, like fairies waltzing in a far off dimension. That was just silly though. There were no fairies, and there was no light.

He was vaguely aware that he shouldn't be acting like this, that there was something wrong here, but he couldn't seem to process what it was. He had felt so scared, so much fear, until finally his nerves were worn down so far they just became numb. Now he couldn't feel anything. There was no thought, because with it came the realisation, the terror of his own situation. There was no emotion, because emotion opened that trap door, the one he never wanted to be opened again. Now he was detached. Floating in the cold, dark space. He knew that he was hungry and tired, but didn't feel it. All he felt was a sort of dull calm, like a thick blanket that covered him. It pressed down on him, preventing him from breaking away from it, preventing movement, thought, action.

Hovering in the dark, he was safe. Even with the faint dread that hung in the air, he wasn't afraid. He'd passed that stage so very long ago. Now he was just... here. In the shadows.

Until a beam of light fractured his reality.

Clanking of locks and bolts as they were unlocked, then that one bolt of light. So bright, shining in and shattering his little world. Shielding his eyes, Reid tumbled down to the stone floor as his wings that had wrapped him so tight were ripped away. The door swung open, like the gates to some alien world. The illumination that poured in like water rushing from a pitcher was blocked only by a form. The Archangel, bathed in heavenly light. White hair glowing, eyes shining with wicked delight.

For a moment, in Reid's eyes Miranda truly was a goddess. An avenging angel, reaching out a heavenly hand in mercy. And he wanted mercy. He wanted an end, and for a second, he wanted to lie down at her feet and give in.

But the moment passed, and as Reid's eyes adjusted, so as did his brain slide into focus.

Miranda was standing in the open doorway holding a tray. On it were old fashioned china tea cups and a pot of steaming tea, along with a silver tray of cookies. She was wearing a white lace dress. The only spot of colour on her was her lipstick, which was a bright red. For a minute he stared at the colour, the first colour in so very long, while he tried to get his throat to stop sticking so much. It was so dry. If only he could speak.

"It's been 29 hours and fourteen minutes, in case you were wondering."

Miranda's voice was velvety and smooth, teasing and playful. Her shoes clicked as she descended into the room, before sitting down elegantly, placing the tray in front of her. Still huddled in the corner, Reid forced himself to turn slightly in her direction. Voice soft and raw, he responded from a protective position automatically.

"I wasn't. Why?"

They both knew that his question wasn't about the length of time, or her presented information. It was something much more basic than that.

She laughed a tinkling, adorable laugh. Her every move seemed light and fresh to Reid's eyes. After so long by himself, with only his mind to accompany him, even the most nefarious of company was still that- company.

"Come now, Spencey, you know better than that. You know exactly why."

Reid nodded, and found he did.

"You were bored."

She handed him a cup of tea, whose steam let off a familiar aroma. It was a smell from a life, long ago. Earl Grey. The scent belonged in a warm living room, to good friends and bad times alike, to comfort and to those who provided it. And to books. Always to books. It didn't belong here, with this strange, disturbing, terrifying being. He took it anyways, holding the warmth close to his chest. As if this one small source of heat could radiate throughout his soul. As if the steam could lift him up away with it.

"Yes, I was bored. So very bored. I expected this time to be the best yet, but so far no real challenge has presented itself. So I mixed things up."

Reid was so tired, and so numb right now, he barely even registered the words as they left his mouth. They just slipped out, sliding from between his lips.

"And frustrated. Visiting family will do that. It must be strange to be around them, knowing we're down here. In the Underground."

He took a sip of tea. Miranda's mouth opened slightly, then closed. She was staring at him, any colour she might have had drained from her face. Totally still. Not talking. Without anything to stop him, Reid found he couldn't. He was so tired of all these games, all this hiding. He knew he was throwing down all his cards, and that it wouldn't get him anywhere but possibly dead. He knew that. But he was tired of being a helpless victim she could just play with. Right now, all he wanted to do was see her lose it, just a little. See her know what it felt like, even just a little, to be scared. He was so cold, so sore, so weak- but he could still talk. He could still divulge. And so he did. With a calm expression on his face, he continued.

"The media must be going wild right now. You wouldn't have been able to resist, could you? That was stupid of you, contacting them. Interesting, but stupid. You've underestimated my team. If you meet with them, like you're planning to, you're not going to last more than three more days. They'll find us within four. I think I can hold on that long, which is a strange thing to think when I could just run down the hall, turn left and then right, and leave up through the basement of your father's building. At least, I think it's your father's. Could be anyone close to you, but my bet is on father. You've grown up with money, that much is obvious. Distant parents who never really understood you, and could pay someone else to try. Your first kill was probably one of those people, who you have a certain level of distain for. You were young, maybe thirteen or fourteen. You were smart, but you would have made a mistake. They all do the first time round. That's how they'll find you. It'll be that one mistake, that one error of judgement. Too much flare, despite how careful you are. That's always been your downfall. And now it's all going to catch up to you."

Reid's speech was delivered in a calm, precise voice. Never showing emotion, always staring at the wall. This didn't prevent him from remarking on the faint ripples across Miranda's teacup as she tried to prevent her hand from shaking. Perhaps out of anger, perhaps fear. It didn't matter to Reid. All that mattered was that he'd finally gotten a real reaction. He'd finally levelled the playing field a bit. She was still going to taunt the team; she had to prove to him she was better than them. And therefore, she was still going to be caught. He knew it, deep down inside. It was a surety that superseded the fear and the doubt and the anguish. It was a surety which made him smile faintly. A smirk which spread across his lips like a stain marring a white page. A faint dusting of humour, graced upon his features by the light strokes of a brush.

He took another sip of tea.

"I can tell you more. I can tell you all about how you felt towards your classmates, the patterns of your personal life, how you found your 'butler' and why you think you're doing this. Not to mention why you're really doing this. I can tell you anything you want about you. Because I've figured you out. I've won."

He sat while she stared at him, face leeched of colour, mask ripped away by words, torn by knowledge and frayed by her own anger. Slowly, lips pursed together so tightly they had become a thin, slashed line through her face, she placed her cup back on her saucer. The clank of the china touching seemed to echo throughout the chamber like a gunshot in an alley. Placing it back on the silver tray in front of her, she suddenly reached behind her, fingers trembling like an addict's in her haste. Out came the black remote.

"You haven't won. You're still here, and I can still do this."

Jamming her fingers down on the button, Reid felt the now horribly familiar sensation of electric charges entering his body. As his spine bent backwards and his fingers grasped at the floor desperately, he was reminded that no matter how familiar something is, it doesn't make it any less painful. Finally, it was over, and his body returned to its hunched position, gasping for air like a fish out of water.

Despite this, even as he tried to return his breathing to normal and Miranda's became steadier, he couldn't stop the infectious, horrible, smile from returning. As the corners of his face twitched upwards, all he could think was that he had still won. She had lost control. And he was pleased. Miranda stood up, and began speaking in a voice that still rung with angry echoes.

"You can smile all you want. You're never going to leave here, and neither is your dear Derek. In fact, I'm beginning to think about going and seeing what he thinks about how rude you've been."

Reid's voice was small and dry, cracked by abuses.

"That will only prove I've won."

Miranda smiled twistedly, a grimace that skewed her features and contorted her beauty.

"You're right. You're so very right. And so I'm not going to. However, you were wrong about one thing. You're never going to get out of here. Your team is lost, confused, and useless. And you're alone. Alone and in the dark. I'm going to let you keep that," she said, motioning to the teacup, "so when it finally gets to you, you can use the shards to find some final peace."

She picked up the tray, and Reid rested his head on the wall.

Trying to resist the urge to call her back.

To call her back, so that he had someone.

Anyone.

The door shut with a final noise, like the lid of a coffin banging into place- which could easily be what this was.

_Four days. I only have to hold on for four days._

He hoped.

* * *

Rossi was woken by the sound of his phone ringing. Blearily groaning and stretching for his it, he rubbed his face with sleepy hands. Clicking the answer button after a few tries, he muttered into the mouthpiece.

"What is it? Has something happened?"

He still felt as if there was a film over everything, making the world around him a murky, fuzzy, tired mystery- until the voice on the other end of the phone tore it away. Quickly sitting up and swinging his legs out of bed, he switched on the light and reached for clothing.

"You've got to be kidding me... I'll be there in fifteen minutes maximum."

In the end, it took him seventeen with traffic. As the glass door to the BAU's meeting room swung open to allow him entry, the rest of the team was already working. JJ was yelling at someone on the phone, showing a level of aggression unusual for the liaison. He slipped into one of the swivelling chairs and the conversation, receiving only a glancing nod from Hotch as recognition of his arrival. On the table was the focus of their attention. This morning's _Seattle Times _was laid out to show the blaring headline, but Rossi didn't need to read it. It would be some other variant on the ones being proudly displayed by every other publication in the city.

Letter From the Devil Herself; Breaking News in Serial Killings and Kidnappings; Mysterious Coded Message from The Crimson Killer

Some were more eloquently worded than others, some more sensationalistic, but they were all the same. A letter, signed only by the 'Red Lady', as she'd apparently decided to call herself, sent to this newspaper and this one only! The only difference was the letters themselves. They were all patterns of random words and numbers, but they were all different parts of a message. A message no doubt intended for one group of people. The group of people sitting in this room.

"We can't dismiss the possibility that this is a prank, something sent in by an imposter or fan. Remember, when Jack the Ripper sent letters to the newspaper, the vast majority were later deemed to be fakes. It wouldn't be the first time this has happened." Prentiss was trying to keep a rational stance, but she couldn't help doubting her own words.

Rossi leaned back, looking at the paper.

"This fits with the profile, though. They're bragging. And I'm no expert, but this code looks far more sophisticated than something your average person could come up with. We only released the news yesterday, a random person wouldn't have had the time to come up with this. It's far more likely that this is either from someone closely involved, or the un-subs themselves."

His words spent unintentional tremors through them. Rossi might not have been an expert, but they knew who was. Without Reid, how were they going to figure this out? He was their resident genius, and they were used to having his insights by their side when tackling this sort of problem.

"What I find significant here is the name," Hotch said. "The Red Lady? We've been running under the assumption that our un-sub is male, but so far all the messages have had an artistic, almost feminine touch. Could we be looking at a transsexual male, or female un-sub?"

"This un-sub is something we haven't dealt with before, in many ways. I don't think we can assume anything. Let's stick to what we know, though. The un-subs are getting braver, this escalation is practically unheard of. I wouldn't be surprised if they go further trying to contact us."

Prentiss nodded as Rossi spoke.

"You're right. We need to think about the motivation behind this. I think it's obvious they want attention, but the question is: from who?" Emily paused, and picked up the original file with all the previous victims. "We can easily assume a level of emotional torture went along with the physical for all the previous victims. Given that they all knew the ones they were taken with, this isn't random. It's planned. The question is why? I have a hard time believing this kind of cry to be recognised and in power, along with the focus on relationships is coming from an un-sub who simply kills because they like it. There has to be a deeper motivation at work here."

"Perhaps they've missed out on some sort of relationship, or caring in their childhood from an authority figure. These messages were sent directly to us. The photos, the killing of the detectives, all pointed towards the police force and then our team. The FBI. Could this un-sub's demands for attention and recognition from figures of justice and authority be linked to their past, or even a present relationship or event in their life which makes them feel like they're not getting it?" Rossi had a thoughtful expression on his face. He was speaking with the air of a psychologist, having expertly put aside his personal feelings for the case.

Prentiss got to her feet, and began circling certain traits of the killer, whose profile was already outlined on the whiteboard.

"We said they were from decent means, they'd have to be in order to pull this off. They have managed to have access to the most sensitive of police information, stuff only the higher-ups have. Combined with their want for approval from authority figures, I'd say we have our demographic."

Rossi leaned back and made a soft whistling sound under his breath.

"It would explain why we don't have anything in our system with this type of MO. Nobody's better at ignoring their children's faults than those who have enough money not to have to worry about them. But it would take one very spoiled brat to do this to this many people..."

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. McAllen was standing outside, holding a file. Without greeting JJ, who opened the door for him, he strode in a placed it on the table.

"Our tech team didn't come up with anything on the code. We were hoping you'd gotten somewhere with it. It's most likely something personal to your team, something that would ensure no random person figured it out. Have you got anything?" There wasn't much hope in his voice.

"No, we haven't. But we have something better. We've been working on the profile, and we're onto something." Prentiss briefly outlined what they'd come up with.

McAllen leaned back against the door frame, rubbing his jaw with one hand.

"If you think they're related to someone in the higher circles, this is not going to be easy. No one likes to face the truth about their families, especially when they might be to blame. They could shut this down if we accuse someone too fast."

"There's more" Prentiss said. "Now that we know their pattern, we can predict their next move. They're escalating, and they want our attention. My guess is they'll make contact again, and soon. We need to be ready for it, and recognise it when it happens. Most importantly, we need to figure out where Reid and Morgan are being held before we give any sort of impression we're suspicious of the un-sub. Their safe retrieval is our priority right now."

McAllen nodded, appearing a little alienated by the sudden rush of information. Before he could react, Hotch took charge.

"In the mean time, we need to split up tasks. Prentiss, Rossi, you try to figure out as much as you can about this un-sub. But more importantly, about their partner. Find out where they got the muscle, it can't be too easy for someone from a good neighbourhood to get that sort of partner without someone noticing. They'll have a criminal record, start with that. JJ, keep the media happy and make sure they think we're focussing on the notes. Then notify Garcia, get her working on that code. McAllen, come with me. We need to look into who would be able to access this information."

The team immediately began moving. Hotch walked smoothly towards McAllen, and then out the door without looking to see if the man was following. He was. They quickly arrived at the blonde man's office. Hotch began questioning McAllen, and before long they'd assembled a tentative list of people.

"Is it possible, though, that this is some sort of hacker? I mean, what with all the things some people can do these days, I doubt they have to have a relative with access to get in." McAllen's tone was thoughtful, but tired. He clearly hadn't slept in a while.

Hotch nodded. "We've already checked into that possibility. It was the first thing we had Garcia do when we realised they were one step ahead of us. The issue is that most of our actions haven't been officially documented, and all our communications have been extremely secure. Still, she checked for any signs of tampering, and we didn't come up with anything. They would have left a trail, and that's just not there."

McAllen leaned back in his chair with a long exhalation.

"Yeah, I guess. I just don't want to believe it could be the son of someone I know committing these acts. Bloom was one thing. I always knew something was off about him, but it's different when they're your superior. It just goes against the grain. I mean, I was even invited to that stupid gala- but I suppose I'm not going to be able to go anyways."

His voice trailed off slowly, when Hotch sat up like he'd been shocked by electricity. The urgency in the man's voice surprised McAllen, it was the closest to emotional he'd heard the special agent.

"What gala?"

* * *

Morgan stared at Greg. He was having a lot of trouble being really interested in what was going on. Greg had been trying to get a rise out of him for the past few minutes, but Morgan wasn't really paying attention. All he cared about at this point was getting Reid and getting the fuck out of there. Listening to the psychopath prattle on about the darker parts of Morgan's past had gotten old. It didn't cut anymore, because he couldn't care less what the monster thought of him. He still wanted to take his head off with an axe, preferably slowly, but in the interim he couldn't care less what he said about him.

Honestly, there wasn't much the man could do to him right now. It was obvious Miranda had forbidden her dog from biting him, and his bark was hollow. They were still pretending they had no idea who Reid was, so threats had about as much substance as the air around them.

_Crack._

Greg snapped his fingers in Morgan's face. Morgan looked up at him.

"Do you ever shut up?"

Greg gave him one last look, and then threw down a plate with a sandwich and a water bottle before stalking out like a lion. Off to lick at his wounded pride, Morgan supposed.

He felt like his brain was walking through mud all the time. A dull sort of filter had settled over his vision, making the world around him blurry and uniform. He was too apathetic to sustain any sort of burning rage at his captors, to be snarky and aggressive. His thoughts would wander off down a long winding road with lots of turns. Going farther and farther into the mountains at a casual, meandering pace. Sometimes it was weeks before they returned, rugged and bleary, stumbling into the sunlight. They would shade their eyes, cower in shock. Then they would adjust, and begin to wander. And then they were lost again, far away from useful. Never following the map he set out, never staying on the well-travelled gravel path he wanted them to follow. The safe path, the path which got him out alive.

It was like trying to train a cat. Point them in one direction, and they'll go in another.

He wished they would co-operate. At the back of his mind, he knew it wasn't right. And sometimes, when they tripped over a log and fell back into the bright meadows, he could even begin to rationalise it. Stress, blood loss, dehydration. A potent mix.

Sometimes he even figured out it had probably only been a day since Reid had disappeared. But a day of wandering, of no focus, of a fog which flowed in thick, moist waves into every nook and cranny of his brain.

And behind it all, behind all the confusion and broken-down thoughts, there was the constant. The painful thrumming of that low-burning rage. Like lava, deadly hot and hiding just below the surface. Waiting for the earth to crack, waiting for the explosion of ashes and heat. Waiting to be let free.

He leaned back against the wall. It was cool. Cool like the feeling of leather slipping beneath his fingers when he came back to his house after a long case and slumped onto his couch. The couch always looked new, even though he'd gotten it five years ago? Had it been five? Five. Five, like how old he'd been when his sister had been so angry at him she'd thrown his basketball into the bushes. He'd gotten all scratched trying to get it out, and his mother had had to bandage him up. Long, white strips of bandage, a long white beach with sand and blue, blue waves where his holiday had been interrupted by another twisted murderer.

Dead eyes staring into his, like they could see his soul. So many dead eyes, so many dead souls.

Did he even believe in souls? He didn't know, didn't want to know anymore. All that he could see were the eyes of all the dead, the bodies cut up and strangled, bruised and broken. Did he want to think of them on trial? Did he want to think of judgement? In a way, wouldn't just disappearing back to the earth be nicer? Calm, calm nothingness. No pain. No pain. No dead eyes, no dead bodies and no crying families. No regret, no thinking he should have done more. No afterlife, and maybe that would be fine.

But what about justice?

And one clear thought rang through his head. _If there is a Hell, I am going to make sure Miranda and Greg burned in it for eternity_

* * *

**So tell me what you think! Arg... can't think of anything witty or amusing to say... so tired. School is killing me right now. And the review button might actually do so if I don't hurry up and update so he has some food.**

**Please review!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Once again, my pretties, I'm sorry for the lack of schedule and slow releases. To be honest, we're reaching the end of our time together, and as we are, I'm getting the feeling less and less people are actually enjoying this- including me. I really want to get into some of my original work, which I haven't really indulged in for a long time. **

**So there are probably about five chapters left, plus an epilogue. I hope you like them, and I hope you find the ending satisfying, and not too abrupt. **

**Yeah, and a little side note. I was watching GCB while writing the scene with Morgan and Greg, and it was an episode about sex, which made me inexplicably want to turn it into slash. So you should know while reading it that every sentence I was closer and closer to them ripping each-others clothes off… so don't judge too harshly :I… I resisted, but you might catch some hints. Sorry.**

**WARNINGS: the usual, plus fabulous clothing :D**

**DISCLAIMER: don't own, have no right to, and probably shouldn't **

* * *

J.J. cleared her throat uncomfortably. Her shoes were pinching her feet, and the perpetual low murmur of high-class tones was getting to her. Her dress didn't feel quite right, but that was to be expected. It was borrowed from one of the other women on the force, since she didn't exactly have the time to go get one of her own. Pasting her most charming smile back on, she couldn't help but feel the edges were peeling off. Making an effort to glue it on with all her will, she continued to glide around the ballroom.

She knew what she was doing there, but it was still hard to walk around surrounded with glamour and glitz when all she wanted to do was shake the people around her. Shake them and demand they divulge whatever secrets they were hiding behind layers of makeup and polite grimaces. Silk dresses rustled against marble floors, shiny shoes tapped and women tittered from the space so graciously hidden by gloved hands.

The whole thing was a stage, where the characters moved around and said their lines. Lights shone in the audiences eyes, carefully placed props and intricate backdrops stole their hearts. They were all the perfect picture. But one of the actors was hiding more than a pouch of fake blood. One of the actors was stealing the show under the spotlight, and they had a murderer crouching in their shadow. People clapped and cheered, and J.J. was left spinning and turning in the middle, trying to catch to liar. Was that handkerchief, so subtly and dramatically dabbled against a forehead as sign of nervousness? Was the shifty gaze of the tall man in black a clue to the location of her friends, or the glance of someone in an awkward social situation?

J.J. was here for a very simple reason. Someone here knew something. The trick was figuring out whom.

When Hotch had said they needed to attend the annual gala held by the most highly paid of those brave citizens who helped keep the streets of Seattle safe from criminals, J.J. hadn't been expecting him to say it was that very night. She most certainly had not expected him to tell her to go. And she had, with the utmost surety, not expected to have to go by herself.

In the end, they were too tight in resources to have anyone else come in with her, so her only contact with the team was through the tiny earpiece Garcia was talking to her through. Her job was to get the guest list, which was an incredibly exclusive and well-guarded ordeal given the nature of the gala's patrons. That had been surprisingly easy, and with some help from the tech-assistant, she now had a USB with all the details taped to the inside of her thigh. She could appreciate the James-Bond-ish nature of it, but she doubted her husband would see things the same way when she told him. She mentally tightened her grip on herself. She had resolved long ago not to spend time thinking about Will when she was on a case, it marred her focus.

As she made polite conversation with an older man whose company was one of the main donors to the police department, she considered the second part of her mission. She was here to scope out the guests, which possibly included their un-sub. According to their profile, this was the perfect crowd of people to meet the person they were looking for. It seemed a little too convenient to her, and she couldn't help shaking the feeling that this was either a dead end or they were playing into the hands of whatever mastermind was behind all of this. It was a crazy thought, of course, but it continued to play through her head. A melody of doubt, suspicion and fear, interspersed with high chords of tension and the deep bass of fateful doom.

They knew the un-sub was going to try to contact them again, and soon. And that might just mean here, and now.

The thought had engaged her for a second too long, and she bumped into a man, spilling the dregs of his champagne onto the both of them. She back up and automatically began apologising profusely. Pulling her hair out of her face, she looked up at the man and realised he was apologising with feverous tones that eclipsed even her own. He was in his sixties, by her estimation, and had the slim frame and gangling demeanour of someone who'd spent too much of their life in front of a computer and not enough of it on the more pleasurable things in life. His hair had obviously once been brown, but was now mostly grey. His glasses were slightly uneven, and hung oddly on his face as if they didn't quite know what they were doing there. All in all, he gave off a very different aura than the one that seemed to flow from the other guests. They were all smoothly patterned graces and chins lifted to the sky. He looked like he wasn't quite sure where he was at any one time, and his eyes had an the intelligent look of someone who doesn't quite believe it gives him the right to be superior to anyone.

"I'm very sorry, I do hope none of that got on your lovely dress. I'm so clumsy, so very sorry." His voice had a hint on an accent J.J. couldn't put her finger on. She found herself quite amused by his worried tone.

"No, no, no, don't worry about it. It was my fault. There was barely any, I don't think it'll leave a stain. Did much get on you?"

The man checked his shirt in surprise, like he hadn't even thought of it.

"None of the white, and that's the only place you can see it anyways," he said conspiratorially. "Do me a favour, don't tell my wife and I'll be your eternal servant- it would probably be an improvement on another polite conversation with the vultures."

J.J. smiled in honest amusement for the first time since she'd gotten here.

"And how, pray tell, do you know I'm not one of 'the vultures'?"

"You seem far too basically decent to have been to many of these parties before, forgive me if I'm wrong."

"Well, you'd be right. Is it that obvious?" She was slightly worried. She wasn't undercover, but she didn't exactly want to display the fact that she didn't fit in.

"No, no, not at all. You do a very good job looking elegant." The man's reply was gracious, and she couldn't help but smile again.

"Well in that case, I will take you up on your offer."

They both laughed slightly at this. He reminded J.J. of one of her more distant uncles who she hadn't seen in years. He seemed far more genuine than the other people here, and despite her knowledge that she was supposed to be canvassing the whole place, she couldn't help but talk for a few more minutes with him.

"So how is a pretty young thing like you connected to the police department?"

Because part of her job was to attract the attention of the un-sub, she was able to tell the truth for once.

"I'm part of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit, I'm in Seattle for the Red Lady case. I have a night off and one of the department's heads invited me as his guest, just to get to know a few of the people who make the cogs turn."

"Oh, that's why you seem so familiar! I saw you on the television. Shocking business that, I hope your agents are safely returned. I am nothing so spectacular; I just design technology for the police. Nothing like you see on TV, either. I am essentially a glorified librarian, trying to make sure none of the shelves collapse. Now that technology evolves so fast, we're always struggling to affordably keep systems up to par."

"Oh, my job's nowhere near as glamorous as you'd think either. A lot more paperwork goes into it than Hollywood would have you believe."

"I can imagine. My daughter is infatuated with jobs like yours, and I keep telling her they're not all guns and clues in the night. She'd love to meet you." He seemed to be about to say something more, but just then a woman slunk up beside him and wrapped herself around his arm. She was tanned and blonde, and had clearly had surgery to keep her face and body from betraying her true age, which J.J. would have put at about fifty. She was wearing a bright gold dress and made up with haughtiness everything her husband's humble lines lacked.

"Dear," she said, her voice airy and refined. "Won't you come say hello to Mr. Chen? You haven't been socialising at all, I'm beginning to feel like I don't even have a husband." She gave J.J. a glancing, judgemental look, scanning her simple navy dress and plain wedding band.

The man laughed oddly, obviously unhappy about his wife's arrival.

"Well, duty calls. It was lovely talking, Miss…?"

"Jareau. Jennifer Jareau." She smiled at him, as his wife steered him away towards more influential people.

Turning back into the crowds, she listened as Garcia spoke into her ear.

_Well he seemed nice enough, but you really shouldn't be flirting with guys that old, honey. That's interesting that he had a daughter though, I'll see if I can find out more about him._

J.J. almost let her mask slide off her face at Garcia's comments. For his own good, she hoped that there was no reason to find out more about him. And she hadn't been flirting!

* * *

Reid stared out at the blackness. He'd stopped trying to see anything, and soon after had discovered that closing his eyes did no good either. There was no difference anywhere. It was still black. It troubled him to think that the last thing he would see could be black. Whenever he'd pictured dying, he had always wanted to have his friends, his family around him. Even at the darkest times in his life, he'd always had something. Something to hang onto.

Now he was just alone in the dark, hanging in the middle of a space devoid of anything but the hard floor and the pain in his body. He'd faced death before, but it had never been like this. He'd never been so alone.

He'd been shot at, he'd even taken a bullet for someone else. He'd been beaten, he'd been scared. Once he thought he was going to die of poisoning. But every time he'd had someone there. Morgan, waiting outside the glass and shouting at him to open the door. When he'd been held hostage, he'd known that they were right there. In the train, in the hospital, in the houses and buildings and basements. Against so many different killers, torturers, rapists, and lunatics. They had always been there. Even before them, when he had been in school and sometimes just wanted to end it. He'd always had his mom, his work, his space and things.

When he'd been strung out on drugs, he'd known there were places to turn. When he'd been terrified this would be his last second on Earth there were things he had to do. There had been tasks to accomplish, details to hang onto.

Then there was the one time he'd truly faced death. Lying on the floor, breath choked out of him. Lights and shadowy figures. But that time he hadn't had time to think, hadn't had time to consider the fate waiting for him. Most importantly, he'd been wrenched back into the world by a pair of harsh, dirty hands. That wasn't going to happen this time.

So many moments, so many breathes he'd wasted.

So many times he wanted to say things, so many times he hadn't done what he wanted to. So many times he couldn't change. If it ended here, if he ended here, what would his life come to? What had he left on this Earth, or did that matter? He was a genius, he knew that logically, but he couldn't answer any of the questions on his mind now.

Every man fears death. Everyone cowers in the face of the ultimate impossibility, the infinite possibilities. He was a man of science, so he'd always denied irrational explanations for what happened when you died. That was before it was staring him in the face. It was there, crouching in the darkness. Slashing its tail back and forth and waiting, always waiting. But it had waited long enough. It was tired of this game, and it was waiting to pounce. He had always belonged to it, he had never been more certain of it.

We all belonged to it. It owns us our whole lives. It loans us to life, but it's still there. In the shadows, around every corner and just underneath every surface. It's patient, but not too patient. Smiling into the night, never quite tangible it laughs at us.

He wasn't used to such morbid thoughts. He had never been much of a romantic, but in the naked, bold face of the dark, he found science far less tangible, far less real than the fear. When his reality became defined by the borders of insanity, and only limited by the depth of his imagination, (a depth that plunged lower each second he was alone in the dark) what had been rule became dream. Mathematics seem so much more like theory when you can barely remember what a universe with dimensions felt like.

He had to remind himself his universe had dimensions. But walking, moving, seemed like a quest. He was gripped by the feeling that if he stood up, if he moved, he would be lost in the darkness forever. What if he was already dead, and this cold corner was the only shred of reality left? What if he stepped away and it too disappeared?

What if he was already dead?

Because this must be what death felt like. Cold, and alone. Very alone.

With only the trailing, wavering candle of his thoughts.

A candle whose logic waned by the second, a candle waiting for a gust of breeze.

What if he was alone forever?

* * *

Greg and Morgan glared at each other. It had been a few hours now, but neither one of them was moving. Morgan idly wondered what Greg was doing here. He was probably bored. Miranda hadn't 'dropped in' in a long time, and Morgan supposed she was too busy with Reid to bother with him- or Greg. He had long since decided that no news was good news with Miranda. If something happened to Reid, she would want to flaunt it. The only reason she ever took an interest in him was if Reid was involved. So in the meantime, he could only wait. Staring at Greg.

_How on Earth did I end up in this situation?_

His thoughts were broken by Greg's voice. It was rougher than usual, dabbled with something near irritation and far from happiness.

"You should be terrified."

Morgan looked at him. Morgan was terrified. The thing was, he had been waiting for so long, terrified for so long, it didn't even show on his face. It was ingrained deep inside him, bone deep. No immediate threat could be more terrifying than the constant unknown, so showing fear to Greg wasn't even a possibility.

"I am." He said honestly. Greg's lip curled.

"Don't patronise me. Do you think you could take me? In your shape?"

"Probably not." Morgan was way too tired to keep up any sort of façade of defiance.

"Probably?" Greg leaned closer to him. "Definitely."

Morgan just looked away. He wasn't going to encourage the man; it would only end in trouble for Reid.

"You definitely couldn't take me. But why don't you try? What happened to your manly play? Gave up on the lies?"

Morgan didn't even look at him. He wasn't going to rise to the pathetic attempt.

"But would you try if I threw some… incentive in?"

Morgan's head turned, brow creased. His voice was raspier than he would have liked, making the tense feeling inside his stomach worsen.

"What do you mean? I doubt that Mir- your mistress would like it if you get me damaged." He said, remembering the violent reactions that had occurred when he'd called Miranda by her first name in the other man's presence.

Greg smiled like a shark. It was clear he knew he'd gotten a bite, and the gleam in his eye said he was certain he was going to reel it in. He leaned in closer to Morgan and whispered to him conspiratorially.

"Between you and me, you're broken. And my Lady doesn't much care for broken toys. Besides, that shouldn't be your concern. On the other hand, I know what is. And I'm sure you're dying for just a little, teensy, bit of information about that."

Morgan felt the tension in his stomach harden into a ball. He knew it was going to come down to this, and in the end he knew he wouldn't have a choice when it did.

"Reid."

Greg grinned again, as sudden as lightening and wide as the sea. Backing up, eyes gleaming with the sort of excitement that screams of blood and frenzy, he spread his arms.

"Of course, I have no idea who you're talking about. But I might. You never know- but you could."

Morgan gritted his teeth, all the fear and anger and tension of the days returning. Staring up at Greg, he knew that this was it. And he didn't intend to treat it as anything other than just that.

"When and where?"

* * *

J.J. blinked to get rid of the dark splotches threatening to overtake her vision. Leaning back over her computer screen, she gritted her teeth and began to try to make sense of the email from some newspaper again. It was obviously trying to have a threatening tone, and normally she'd dispatch of the attempt quickly and effectively. It was a lot harder than usual for some reason right now though. _Of course it is, you moron, _she thought. _You were out until two in the morning last night and then had to get up early to deal with what you found. _Somehow understanding what was going on didn't make it any easier to keep her head straight though.

She put her head in her hands, only to knife upwards when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned quickly to see Prentiss behind her, looking sympathetic and holding a cup of coffee.

"How's it going?"

"Fine, I'm just a little tired" J.J. said, accepting the mug with grateful hands.

"Well, then you'll be pleased to know that there's a gentleman caller here to see you."

"What?" J.J.'s eyes widened, and she suddenly felt far more awake.

Prentiss laughed.

"He brought his daughter. Some upper-level techie who met you last night. Said he just wants a quick word, if it's not too much trouble."

Something in the other woman's eyes made J.J. hesitate. Then she looked around where she was. Police officers milled back and forth, and a few were obviously listening in. Suddenly she saw what was so important that Prentiss wouldn't have simply sent the man away. This could be it. She looked at Prentiss, understanding in her eyes. Keeping her tone light, she responded.

"Really? I only met him for a few minutes. Must have made an impression. I'll be quick, but would you mind coming? Give me an excuse to get out of there?"

Prentiss nodded, knowing she was really asking for a second professional opinion.

"Sure, no problem."

Marching around the corner, through the police station, any concerns J.J. had with her tiredness were forgotten. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and her vision was clearer than it had been in ages. Turning into the hallway the visitors were waiting in, she brightened her smile and pulled her most harmless cloak over her head. This was one performance that couldn't afford to be lack-luster.

As she strode towards the vaguely familiar figure of the man she'd spoken to the night before, she caught a sight of his daughter, looking over the pictures of deceased officers on the walls. As the girl turned towards her, J.J.'s attention was caught by a light shining off the girl's hair.

The girl's bright white hair.

* * *

**Ooh shit. Things are going down. So, my message at the start said it all, but since things are winding down here, I have one last concern. You see, things between me and the review button have been tense, and I really need you guys to come through for it. It's in a dark place right now. Have a little pity, because I can't take its mood swings.**

**Your time would mean a lot to the both of us. 3**


	20. Chapter 20

**Hey guys... so in my life right now, I have discovered tumblr and injured my knee doing tae kwon do. I need to see a specialist for the second one, and probably for the former as well eventually. Anyways, I'm sorry once again at how late this is. I totally lost inspiration, and then I watched the season finale. Despite it's lack of Reid, I enjoyed it immensely, and finally was able to start writing again. Call it a miracle. :D**

**WARNINGS: yeah, more messed up shit. You know me, swearing, lots of violence, agnsting and psychopaths. All good.**

**DISCLAIMER: no ownings of Criminal Minds. **

* * *

J.J. looked over the girl. She was skinny, with bright white hair and wide, bright, pale eyes. She was wearing a cute outfit of entirely black and white that reminded her of Garcia in an off-hand way. She was entirely non-threatening, but this didn't put either of the women off their guard. They had to be prepared for the unexpected. The second the girl saw them, she bounced over. It was really the only way of describing her movements. She seemed full of happiness and excitement. Lively. Bold. The unexpected indeed.

The man J.J. had met at the gala walked up to them, head bowed slightly and a bashful expression.

"Hello, it's great to see you again. I'm very sorry about this, I would never want to take up your time on such an important matter- but the second my daughter heard about you, she begged me for a quick conversation. I just can't resist her, I hope it's not too much trouble." He hugged the girl into his side.

J.J.'s smile came on as her internal autopilot switch flicked. While grinning and convincing him it was no trouble at all, her mind was running analysis over everything she saw. The way the girl stiffened ever so slightly when her father touched her, the way her eyes glistened with a smile yet remained totally focussed on the two women.

"So you're our admirer?" J.J. turned to the girl.

"Yes, yes, definitely! I'm Miranda, and I'm so glad I got to meet you. What you do is so cool! I can't believe you guys are real."

She bounced up and down a few more times, displaying what would have to be a very realistic acting job of excitement if it was one. J.J. couldn't help feel, however, that Miranda was addressing Prentiss more than her.

"Well, it's not that exciting. Many brave men and women work in jobs just like ours all over the country. We're nothing special, and to be honest, it's a lot more paperwork and less busting the bad guys than you think, I'm sure." Prentiss said. As she did, the girl moved in closer.

"No, but still! You guys are, like, heroes! Plus, behavioral analysis is so not boring. You guys have the most interesting job ever."

The conversation progressed s such for a couple for minutes, with Miranda paying most attention to Prentiss and adding far too many 'likes' into her sentences. Then her father interrupted.

"Okay, sweetpea, I think we've bothered the agents enough for now. Thank you very much, again. I'm indebted."

Miranda turned, pouting.

"But Dadd-y! We only just started talking. Please!"

J.J. broke in, wanting to see her reaction. So far the girl seemed nothing more than a rich young adult who hadn't had an opportunity to grow up. Not the most pleasant type of person, but equally not an uncommon one.

"Sorry, but we should get back to work. Why don't you come back some other time, when we're a little less busy? We can introduce you to the rest of the team and everything. Right now though, we have a killer to catch."

For a split second the girl's eyes hardened. It was so brief, so tiny, J.J. could have sworn it never happened. Inside, though, she knew it had. The cold feeling in the pit of her stomach was testament. The girl quickly smiled, and her behavior was as careless and floppy as it had been for the rest of the conversation.

"Well, if you promise, I suppose." Her voice was coy, teasing. J.J.'s was warm, but inside her there was ice. The ice of cold, hard hatred.

"Of course I promise. Goodbye!"

J.J. knew, deep down, with absolute certainty that this girl had hurt her family. And she knew with even more surety that she was going to pay for it, if it was the last thing J.J. did.

* * *

Prentiss was the last one into the room where the rest of the team was waiting. There was a picture of Miranda newly hung up on their board, right beside her father's. Their faces were grim, but the mood of the room was different then it had been for the last couple weeks. Before, they had been wallowing around trying to gain some sort of traction in what had seemed to be a never-ending sinkhole. Now they had something, something tangible. A suspect. This territory was still uncharted, but they had a process, a process which applied. They knew what they had to do.

"So what did you think?" Hotch's tone was businesslike. Prentiss looked at J.J., and began.

"She seemed normal, but we know that the un-sub is capable of disguising their nature. She seemed interested in me in particular."

"She slipped."

The team looked at J.J. Her eyes were full of something bitter.

"For a second there, she I told her our time was up, she looked at me, and her eyes were… I don't know, I can't describe it. It's like she wasn't even human. She's our un-sub, I'm a hundred percent sure."

The team look at her, and there was brief moment of silence before Garcia's voice, distorted by the tinny speaker on her laptop, broke it.

"I'm afraid I have to agree, darlings. I've been pulling up her records, and didn't find anything straight away. Then I dug a little deeper, and found a few really disturbing things."

"What do you mean?"

"Just funny little coincidences. She's never been arrested or kicked out of school, but the family's moved around a few times. In the school's she's attended, a janitor and two kids have been reported missing. One of the kids was found alive a few weeks later, and never talked about what happened, but neither of the others were ever found. Also, there have been four fires reported in the areas she grew up in, all close to her family's residence. Add that two the mysteriously high turnover rate of staff at her parent's house, and you wonder why no one ever noticed this before."

The team looked at each other. This was worse than they imagined.

"The incidents stopped about… four years ago. That's two years before the first body showed up."

Hotch was the first to comment.

"I have a feeling her family's influence had something to do with no one ever connecting the events to her. More importantly, we need to know what happened four years ago."

"I can guess." They looked at Prentiss. "She met him, her partner."

"We need to figure out who that is, and fast. J.J., take a couple officers and bring the father in? He'll know the man, we need to talk to him. Everyone else, we need to figure out where they're being held. Look at addresses, warehouses, places she'd be familiar with. Someone get the notes Reid started on geographical profiling when we first got here."

The team got up, but their reactions on hearing Reid's name were perceptible. None of them could forget who they were doing this for, and whose life was on the line. It made them that much more dedicated, and that much more deadly.

* * *

Morgan looked across the room. It wasn't one he'd been in before. It was large, about the size of the morgue back at the police station. The comparison wasn't born entirely from the measurements either. There was a stench of death around this place, just like the one that hung in the refrigerated air of every autopsy lab and undertaker's lair he'd been in. The tiled floor, ceiling and walls were stark white, except where the faint shadows of stains marred the snowy surfaces. Morgan had a terrible feeling he knew where the stains had come from, and it lent him little confidence.

He was afraid. To say otherwise would be the most grievous of falsehoods. The symptoms were all there, the faint sheen of sweat prickling his hands, the tiny shakes that rocked his body. He never let his fear show usually. He had trained himself to bite down on all emotion, process it at lightening speeds, and eliminate all traces. He was good at it. Getting rid of personal reactions that would prevent the job being done, and using those that could help to his advantage. Anger, compassion, disgust. All could help or hinder him, and all were his fuel. His motivation.

He could work through this fear, and it wouldn't even be hard. If he did, Reid might have a chance. That was more motivation than anything else, including his own self-preservation, could give. His anger on the other hand, that he would keep locked up until he needed it.

Calming his mind, feeling his breathing slow, he tried to ignore the physical pain. That was as hard as buttoning down his anger. The exhaustion, the discomfort. The fact he couldn't even stand up straight. Not exactly optimal circumstances for taking on a highly trained professional killer. He wasn't going to be able to beat this guy with force alone. It would be difficult for him to do that even at peak condition. He needed to be smart. Turn Greg's game on him, use it against him.

Greg's eyes were alive. They danced in the bright, flat light. Morgan knew that the man was going to try to use his emotions against him, taunt him, put him off his game. Morgan needed to do the same.

Greg walked forwards, feet flicking in front of one another like a cat sauntering along a fence. His every move was feline. Calculated and precise, with an edge of attitude. He was wearing loose black pants and a fitted black shirt with long sleeves. Beneath it his muscles rippled, their hard curves and well-defined ridges clear. His physical condition was clearly the result of years of training.

A smile flickered onto Greg's face, like someone lighting a match. Sudden, bright, and with a threatening feel to it. The image of a lion stalking its prey leapt into Morgan's head, and all of a sudden he was hard pressed to tell the difference between the two.

Greg drew a long knife from behind him. Morgan's body automatically tensed. Greg's smile broadened a hair, and his eyes burned brighter than ever.

"Don't worry, it's not for me."

That's when Morgan realised the crucial difference between Greg and the lion. Lions hunted the weak, the old, the slow. Greg had more pride than that. There was no joy in defeating the broken and injured for him. It wasn't survival, it was a game. And everyone knows games are only fun with good competition.

Greg tossed the knife carelessly, a Morgan barely caught it. He lowered his centre of gravity as Greg spoke. He may have pride, but Morgan wouldn't put it past him to attack while he thought he was distracted. They began circling each other automatically.

"The rules are simple. We fight. I have most graciously allowed you the advantage of the knife, but once we start, I have no promises as to letting you keep it. There are no rules concerning where and how we may strike or attack. Whoever yields loses. There are no breaks, no pauses, and no restrictions. We start… now!"

He launched himself at Morgan, who barely was able to stumble to the side and avoid his high kick. This wasn't going to be easy, especially in his condition.

Greg was a lion, but Morgan needed to be a crocodile. He needed to wait, beneath the surface, letting Greg tire himself out. Then he would launch out when he saw that crucial sign on weakness and bite down with all his might. Then he simply wouldn't let go, pulling Greg under until his fighting slowed, his struggles halted, and he drowned.

Greg danced forward, quickly stepping and side stepping like a dancer. His fists whipped out, but Morgan was expecting the speed this time and was able to avoid them. Morgan felt the weight of the knife in his hand. It was a brutal tool, a relic of some lost age when men used to hack each other to death with machetes.

He swung it at Greg, more to test it than anything else, and made him jump back. However, the second he'd finished his sweep, Greg continued his merciless assault of hands and feet. Morgan blocked and dodged, but felt himself being pushed back again and again. He was going to hit a wall soon, so he turned around Greg while ducking a blow so they were facing opposite directions. He must have miscalculated something though, because Greg's foot hit the side of his head as soon as he raised his hands again.

The world blurred as he felt his body lurch and tumble to the side. Normally a hit like that wouldn't have the effect of knocking him to the floor, but everything was amplified right now. Suddenly his breath was ejected from his lungs with the force of a train barrelling down the tracks. Greg had jumped on top of him. As fast as he could, faster than he thought he could, he whipped up the blade he still held in his hand and sliced across Greg's face.

The other man pulled back at the last second, but not fast enough and a line of red gorged itself into his forehead. Rivulets of blood seeped from it as he jumped back and Morgan got to his feet. Greg's lips pulled back and he snarled like feral beast.

"What's the matter, worried about your face? I guess a pretty lady like you has to be."

Morgan nearly regretted his words when the man's next onslaught began. He took more than a couple hits, and blood began to make his shirt sticky as his previous wounds tore open again. He slashed again with the knife, and was rewarded by another hit. He felt it in his arm, but didn't see where it was on the other man's torso. He didn't have time. The attacks kept coming faster and faster, and the anger in Greg's eyes only grew.

Morgan realised, with what little attention he had to spare from fending off blow after blow, that this was more than a game. This was what Greg really wanted. A way to relieve the tension, the stress. This was what the man lived for, the senseless violence. And preach his love as much as he liked, the only reason he was following Miranda was because she gave him that.

Morgan was going to have his work cut out for him beating this piece of work. Slashing with his knife, he figured it was time to go on the offensive. Greg wasn't going to tire, to weary, to get sloppy. This is what the man was made to do. Morgan just had to be smarter.

He put all of his soul into praying bring around Reid so much had resulted in some sort of osmosis.

* * *

Reid hung.

It was dark, again. So dark. Like a blanket of night and death hung over his head. Obscuring everything, his mind, his reason. Hope seemed inconsequential, northern lights over his head. Beautiful, bright. But so far away, unable to be touched. So fragile when compared to the night, the empty space, that surrounded them. Pressing in until they fade away, a wonderful lullaby of solitude and despair.

And then it came.

A fracture, a break. The light that spilled out, coming through. Shattering, breaking, destroying. The darkness split into millions, and it danced. The glare was too bright, he shut his eyes. Tried to shade them, tried to prevent them from exploding like the rest of his world. Suddenly, there was a new power on the horizon, and as she stared down at him, he felt himself rush back.

While Doctor Spencer Reid's mind had hung in stasis, while his soul and heart had abandoned him, he had been an empty shell. Now she was back, and he flowed back into his tried, hurt body. Damaged, but still functional. Unhappy in its own being, but joyous to one who had wandered without a home for so long. Thinking was possible again, and facts, wit, were accessible all of a sudden.

_Oh fair goddess, oh maiden of light and mind, oh powerful, wretched, merciless god. Why do you keep me bound? Why does my heart, so full of well-deserved hatred, still flutter with your presence? Why do you, so influential, so alive, so here and now, choose to torture me so? Under other circumstances, I would have worshiped the ground you walked on. The road to salvation would have been the mere following of your light footsteps. But you have forsaken me; you are but a false idol. You are the devil dressed in angel's cloth; you are the deathly plague in virginal white. I beg your forgiveness, as simultaneously your mere presence incites disgust. _

_Why? _

Miranda smiled down at him. His form was hunched, and there were shadows the colour of a plum, over taken by age and turning to grey dust, around his eyes. She looked at his skinny wrists, clutched so close to his body. Walking slowly towards him, knowing the power she held over him, she knelt down.

"Why hello there, Spencey. You've seen better days, but I supposed I shouldn't complain about your appearance. I do hold some fault, really."

Reid let out a harsh, dull laugh, turning his head away from her. The sound that issued from his lips was utterly unfamiliar. It was the bitter, jaded sound of jagged internal pain. The sort of a noise you associate with the tortured, the broken. The sleepless masses, despairing, having given up. He had never thought of himself as despairing, or tortured. Never really been broken. But that laugh, that was a laugh that told another story, and not one he wanted to hear.

She tutted, her lips pursing ever so slightly. Lips painted with a pale, shimmering gloss. She was so put together, so flawlessly painted. He was aware of it, all of a sudden, aware of how perfect she looked, while he was dirty and bruised. While the collar around his neck cut in, while his broken ribs tore at his insides when he drew a breath. While the cuts over his body throbbed, like each had its own tiny heart. She smiled again, staring at him. He refused to look into her eyes. He couldn't. Those ice chips were too cold, too brutal. He would be caught in them, and he knew, irrationally, that he would lose something the minute their gazes met. Something he wouldn't get back.

"I saw your team today. Well, a few members of your team. I don't see what you see in them. I liked dear Emmi, but she isn't anything special. What do you think of Jenny? I really don't think she's half as pretty as she thinks, but with those types there's not much you can do. The cheerleaders. You know her type. They were horrible to you, weren't they? You're more like me."

Reid refused to look at her. He knew, mentally, that mention of his team should provoke an emotional reaction. He should have faith in them, they should bring hope. It was old news though. The die had been cast long ago, when Miranda's mind had been warped to become this way. It had been decided, before she'd even realised it. And he had seen it, seen it so long ago. He had known, and now he was just waiting.

Miranda's tone turned cold.

"Look at me."

He continued to look to the side. He wouldn't look, it wouldn't end well. He wouldn't lose another part of him. He was irrevocable damaged, he knew that. He was something different, something other.

"Fine then. I supposed I'll just leave."

His head moved then, and he had a sudden compulsion. _No. He couldn't be alone again, it was too much. Too much._

"No… wait."

She paused on her way to the door, but didn't turn to face him. Instead her voice issued from the other side of her mane of clean, gleaming hair. Cold, hard, faintly amused.

"Are you going to behave now, darling?"

Reid gave her a cold-eyed glare with a power he hadn't known he still possessed as he nodded. She bent over him.

"Use your words, darling. Don't go get all boring on my now."

"Yes." He paused, swallowing dryly, before repeating it in a quieter tone, as if to himself. "Yes."

She leaned closer, voice high and sweet. Her breath smelled like something from another life. Mint.

"Yes, what?" Her voice was taunting, condescending, but hard. The edge of a knife playfully dancing over fingers. He paused before answering, more out of the desire to think he was capable of considering before submitting than any actual thought.

"Yes, I'm going to behave."

She smiled, and settled down on the floor in front of him with a sunny smile.

"Good. I'm glad. I'm sorry about the way our last conversation went; I lost my temper a little. I was only surprised, you saw far more than I would have thought. That's no reason we shouldn't enjoy our time left together though. You know, I think you might enjoy my company far more than you would ever admit. You don't meet many people like yourself do you?"

Reid ignored the last part.

"You met my team."

"Yes, yes I did. I was let down a little, I assumed they would be a little more interesting. Of course, they are your team, so there must be more to them. We didn't have time for a real chat either, and my father was there. I had to play act. It was frustrating."

She pouted, her lips forming a glittering crease.

"You must be used to that though. Acting." Reid's mouth was talking without the words bypassing his head first, but it didn't matter to him anymore. He hurt too much, and he just wanted to know that there was another world still. Even if she was the only thing, and the rest of it was a lie.

_Is this Stockholm's Syndrome? Perhaps, but this is far from a textbook case if it is. What about this is textbook anyways though? _

The thought gave him confidence. At least the Reid he was familiar with was still in there somewhere, spurting out facts.

"Of course I'm used to acting. But so are you."

"No, not really. I've never been very good at it."

She laughed.

"Well, your job must have changed that. You seem quite proficient indeed."

"I suppose so." He laughed.

"What? Please don't lose your mind now, Spencey, I would be ever so let down."

"No, it just seems ridiculous that a few weeks ago I couldn't properly confide in those closest to me about how much the possibility that I might actually lose my mind terrified me, and now I'm talking quite casually to a psychopath about my life."

She smiled.

"Oh, Spencey, don't worry about that. You can tell me anything. This will all be over soon, and let's face it: you know far more about me than any other soul, living or otherwise."

Reid smiled. He couldn't tell her everything, or anything really. That would go against all his training. Still, she was right about one thing.

All of this would be over soon.

* * *

**So this chapter's not great, or long or anything, but my muse has returned and hopefully the next chapter will be better and longer and stuffs~**

**In other news, the review button has taken to long absences from the house, after which it returns home in time to beat me into submission for asking where it's gone. I think it's killing people. I'm very worried, and it has taken to verbally abusing me for not updating and depriving it of food. **

**Please, help me. Review. It goes a long way to me finishing my story alive and well (ish).**

**Thank you!**


	21. Chapter 21

**There are no words to express how shitty I feel about how long it's been since I updated. On the plus side, I'm finally interested again, and now that school's over, the last few chapters should come out at a fairly decent clip. It's weird thinking about it being over, this has been a long time. I'm going to miss Miranda and Greg. **

**Also, I forgot to mention, this whole Greg/ Morgan fight thing was actually the first legit fight scene I've ever written, so tell me how I did!**

**WARNING: okay, so this chapter's pretty fucked up. Like, not so much the writing, but the content. **

**DISCLAIMER: Don't own, and at the rate I'm travelling the only thing I'll own in ten years is a cardboard box and a pet gutter rat. **

* * *

The knife clattered to the floor as it was flung from Morgan's hand. His last slash had been met with Greg's fist colliding with his arm, making it involuntarily fly out to the side… and release his only weapon. Things weren't going well, and Morgan didn't have a long time. Jumping back, he abandoned any hope of retrieving the blade. Greg wasn't going to give him an opportunity like that, and it was fast becoming clear he wasn't planning on letting Morgan out of the room in decent shape. Briefly, he wondered at the possibility that any one of the random things floating at the back of his mind could be the last thing he thought before he died. A fresh onslaught from Greg, however, quickly terminated his musings.

Morgan was being driven backwards again, but without the knife he had no chance of defending himself. Try as he might, he found himself ducking and dodging far more than actually making any attempts at counter-striking. However, this was what he knew how to do. He wasn't done yet. He saw an opening and kicked with all the force he had left in him, and was rewarded with a gasp from Greg and the satisfying feeling of contact. Greg retaliated with a series of punches that drove Morgan three steps backwards. Morgan twisted his body, a move that tore one of his wounds open, dodging a kick that Greg expected to hit. Greg stumbled slightly, and Morgan gained a step. Maybe there was a chance for him yet-

Greg's right fist smashed into his head, and Morgan's vision blurred. That was all it took, those two seconds, for Morgan to go from in control to helpless and reeling. His balance tipped, and he didn't see the next punch as it swooped in from the other side. His thoughts ran together in a panicked jumble, there was no time for anything.

Bam.

A kick this time, he should have seen it coming. Trying wildly to block, he was hit again. It would only take one good hit now from him to go down and not be able to get back up, and he couldn't stand up straight. Greg was coming for him, and he moved backwards as fast as his body would allow. He just needed some space, only a little distance. The assault was unrelenting, though, and merciless. Tightening his core muscles, Morgan managed to tip himself back into his fighter's crouch just in time to block the next three punches. He was back in the game now, but probably not for long.

Greg was a shark, and now he'd smelt blood. Morgan was floundering around in the water, strength ebbing, and the fin was beginning to circle him. Closer… closer… closer…

There was a sickening crunch as Greg suddenly closed the distance. Morgan's eyes barely registered what was happening, let alone the rest of his body. A fist slammed into his face, and from the blood he could taste all of a sudden, broke his nose. _This is it_, Morgan thought._ It's over… But fuck if I'm going down without a fight. _Apologising internally to his mother for swearing, he wrapped his arms around Greg's lithe body, knowing he'd only be able to hold on for a few seconds. Leaning back, he slammed his forehead into the other man's face. Twice.

It hurt like hell, but Greg was hurting too- and unlike him, Morgan had both nothing and everything to lose. Crushing the man's body with his arms, he snagged a foot between Greg's legs and pulled them both tumbling to the floor. Rolling himself on top, he felt Greg's powerful chest muscles strain beneath him as Morgan held him down with his body weight, which was much less formidable than he was accustomed to, and one of his arms pressing down on him. Bringing his other arm back, he punched Greg's face with everything he had. Greg's body went limp, and he did it again and again and again.

For a second, though he could feel the blood escaping from his body and taste it strong and coppery in his mouth, he thought that he'd won. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of the ultimate hope; he caught a vague, blurry picture from the window of a speeding train of the only thing he'd dreamed of in the past eternity.

Then he felt the unmistakable feeling of muscles tensing beneath him, and Greg flipped him over. Grabbing Morgan's collar, he smashed his elbow into his broken nose. Morgan let loose a hoarse scream that echoed slightly off the walls. Greg's face was bloody, his hair was mangy and sticking up with blood, and the look in his eyes was manic. He smashed Morgan into the ground, leaving him dizzy and unable to think straight, and then wrapped his steely hands around Morgan's throat.

Panic set in as Morgan's eyes widened and his body went into overdrive, clawing at Greg's hands as he choked him. His grip was fierce though, and his eyes had the shiny, glassy look of a madman in them. He was going to die here.

As his vision became patchy and shadowed, he could only think all the times he'd argued with his mom, yelled at his sisters, fought with the team. All the times he hadn't let people in, all the times he'd rebuffed offers to talk. All the times he sat by and watched while the people around him suffered. All the times he hadn't asked Reid what was going on after Henkle... Reid. If Greg was killing him, it wouldn't be long before Reid followed. He had to help him. But he couldn't. It was over for him, and he'd failed once again. Failed to protect his best friend.

There was black all around him now, and someone was beckoning. They were irritating him, waving like mad at the far left. Something was in front of him, a light, but he ignored it. The person was too distracting. Who were they, what were they doing? He squinted, and was rewarded with pain. Mentally shaking himself, the blackness ebbed slightly to reveal something out the corner of his eye. His hand, which had long since fallen from Greg's, reached out to the side. It hurt, it hurt a lot, but all he could think was to get rid of the irritating thing.

The pain scratched away the black in a few more places as he strained his arm, and he realised the irritating waving person was really a glint. A glint shining off the knife that had been knocked out of his hand.

Suddenly, the dots in his head connected. It was over in a few moments, one second he was reaching over and stretching for the knife, the next he had grabbed it and stabbed it upward into Greg's side.

* * *

J.J. felt a little sorry for the man in front of her, as he looked confusedly around. It must be intimidating to have three FBI agents staring at you. Prentiss and Hotch weren't holding back on the 'ice-cold-stare' thing either. Given that they looked content to stand there and look intimidating for the next several eternities, J.J. took it upon herself to start the interrogation.

"Sir, your daughter may be in some serious trouble. We're going to have to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

He looked at her, confusion in his eyes. She really hated to have to put him through this, he had seemed like a decent guy both times she'd met him.

"W-what do you mean? Is she hurt?"

"No, quite the opposite." Hotch was using his extra-serious voice, and the older man seemed to quail before him. "We believe your daughter is mixed up in something."

"You can't think that- no. You really believe… My daughter would never have anything to do with those murders. She's a good girl."

Feeling sorry for him, J.J. broke in, easily falling into the 'good cop' role.

"We're sure she is. However, sometimes good people get into bad situations. Now, it would be a huge help if you could just answer a couple questions."

He looked around nervously. J.J. looked at him in concern. There was something in Miranda's father's eyes that looked like fear. Why though? He didn't have any reason for that kind of abject terror. He might be worried about his daughter, maybe even afraid, but the emotion she saw in his eyes was far beyond that. She had a deep sense of foreboding somewhere in her stomach, and after this many years working in law enforcement, she'd learned to trust her gut.

"Okay, I guess so."

"Mr. Wellington, we're looking for a man close to your daughter. He would have shown up a few years ago. He's extremely physically fit, and probably has displayed anger management issues in the past. However, he'd be very loyal to your daughter, to the point of obedience. He'd defend her to the point where it would seem over the top."

Prentiss held his gaze until he flinched away, playing with the hem of his coat.

"N-no, I can't think of anyone like that."

He didn't meet the eyes of any of the agents. Something was very off here, and it was obvious to all three of the agents. Prentiss moved on to the next question anyways, with a slightly harsher tone to her voice.

"What about a place?"

"What do you mean?"

"Somewhere secluded she frequents, where other people wouldn't be able to hear loud noises."

He coughed out a laugh that fell terribly flat in the silent room.

"You mean somewhere you could torture someone?"

He looked around at the agents, none of whom cracked a smile. He laughed again nervously, before stopping.

"You can't be serious. No! Nowhere like that."

"Has she had any special renovations done to her house? I understand she lives in the city, in one of your family's old places." Prentiss said.

"No! Look, agents, I know you're all very good at your jobs, but I'm sure you have the wrong person. You must have just made a mistake. None of this sounds like my daughter at all."

The agents looked at each other. There was something very off in the man's voice. J.J. didn't want to believe what was fast becoming obvious, but when all of her training and experience pointed to it, she had no choice but to listen. Hotch leaned in and spoke in his most dangerous tone.

"You know, something always seemed strange about this case to me from the start. I dismissed it as bad police work at first, but now I'm not so sure. How come no one ever connected the dots before those two officers? This has serial killer written all over it. Maybe it was because there was someone making sure the dots didn't get connected. Someone high up in the department, with just enough influence to protect the wrong people."

Prentiss circle to the man's other side as he spoke, picking up where he left off.

"It would explain the way the killer always knew what was going on inside the station. How they were always one step ahead. You've suspected what your daughter was for a long time, haven't you? You've been protecting her."

Wellington was sweating now, and began clumsily shaking his head back and forth.

"N-no! I would never…"

"Don't lie." Hotch spat out, cutting him off like a razor-sharp knife blade. "I have two agents out there, and their blood is going to be on your hands if you don't start talking, and fast."

J.J. looked at him with the most disappointment she could muster.

"All those people. How many more have to die before you stand up? I know you must love your daughter, but you have to let her face justice. No matter how hard it is, sometimes you have to stop protecting your children. She's an adult now, and she can face her mistakes."

He looked down at his hands. _Just one more push…_

"If she's done what we think she has, then she's not your little girl anymore. She's a monster. If she hasn't, then you have nothing to hide." Prentiss leaned in slightly as she spoke, her eyes never leaving his.

Slowly, he looked around at the three agents. J.J. tried to give him a sympathetic look, but inside she was disgusted. She'd liked him so much, and the whole time he'd been the reason that Morgan and Reid- her family- were going through hell on earth. It was taking all of her strength not to throw up or punch him out. Obviously, either would impede the investigation rather extremely, so she stopped herself. However, her hand was physically twitching with the urge.

Finally, it was J.J. he addressed when he responded. She really couldn't blame him, the expressions on Prentiss and Hotch's faces was terrifying.

"You must understand, I didn't want to hurt anyone. I just… I just couldn't let her be taken away. She's all I have. She doesn't know I suspect anything. I mean, I could be wrong. I just noticed things about her sometimes… and what could I have done? She's my daughter. When the bodies started appearing, at first I thought it was coincidence. But it was just after she moved out, and she was acting strange. Then I started noticing files going missing when she would come over. They were all returned quickly, and I thought I was imagining it."

"So you just mixed about a few reports, obscured a few details. It wouldn't be hard for a man in your position." Prentiss filled in. He nodded.

"Yes, yes. I figured it couldn't hurt anyone. When more bodies showed up, I realised that this was worse than I thought. But… but I'd already started. I couldn't just stop. So I kept doing it. But I swear I never gave her information! She must have gotten a hold of my password or something, but I never actually helped her. I wouldn't do that."

The expressions on their faces told him that he'd done enough.

"Where is she holding them?" Prentiss' voice was filled with undisguised disgust.

"She… In the basement of our old house, we discovered there was a path into the underground. When she inherited it, she asked for some money to have it cleared out. Like, a panic room or something. She said it was in case someone broke in. I've gotten threats before, it wasn't that hard to imagine. It was all done by private contractors. Ex-military. I… I remember saying 'only the best for my little angel'. That… that was before I thought- before I suspected…"

"The underground?"

"The Seattle underground. You must have heard of it. There are a lot of forgotten corners everyone believed to be blocked off, lost to the world."

Prentiss nodded. "I've heard of it."

Hotch looked at her when she spoke, and nodded. As he did, Prentiss left. They had a location, and neither of them was willing to wait for the interrogation to finish to rescue Reid and Morgan. Every second mattered. That in mind, Hotch's next question was spoke quickly.

"And who's her partner?"

Wellington looked down.

"That would have to be Greg. Greg Smithers. She hired him as a butler, quite out of the blue. He lives with her, like a bodyguard or something."

Hotch nodded.

"That's all we need from you. J.J., can you take care of this?"

She nodded, and Hotch left. Wellington looked up at her, searching her face for some understanding, even compassion. He didn't find any. She stared at him with pure, unadulterated disgust. She knew she should be able to muster something, some distant trace of comprehension. After all, this was his family they were talking about. However, all she could see was another despicable killer.

"You… you have to get it. Right? She's… my daughter. You were so kind." He stared up at her.

There was ice in J.J.'s voice.

"Two of my best friends have been tortured, maybe killed, and you're asking me to feel sorry for you? You're pathetic." She glared at him for a second as his lips wavered and he tried to find words. "Mr. John Wellington, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?"

* * *

It took Prentiss under a minute to have called SWAT, McAllen, and the rest of the team. In less than five, Hotch and J.J. had met her along with the assembled forces to brief them. In less than fifteen, they were on their way to her house.

Prentiss never too her eyes off the road as she drove the BAU's van behind the official vehicles. This was it. They were going to save Morgan and Reid. Then they could all get out of this God-forsaken city and back home. Everything was going to be okay. Internally, she shook her head. As if. Even if they did find her teammates alive, they were never going to be the same. She'd see what trauma like this did to people first hand too many times. Reid and Morgan were strong. Hell, they were beyond strong. This though… this was something else. Especially after what Reid had been through with Henkle. She would be kidding herself if she supposed anything other than the worst.

Her hands tightened on the wheel. She was going to kill this bitch when she found her. Grinding her jaw, she was glad when Rossi interrupted her bloody thoughts.

"So… what is this underground?"

"I visited it once when I was young. I don't know if you've heard of the Great Seattle Fire, but it happened in the mid-nineteenth century. If I remember correctly, it did so much damage that instead of just repairing, the city council rebuilt the whole city. Except this time they did it two stories higher to prevent flooding that used to occur beforehand. They have tours down there now, but a lot of it collapsed or is hidden beneath layers of concrete."

Rossi nodded pensively.

"I guess with a little re-working, it'd be the perfect lair for a serial killer. This sounds like something out of a movie. What are the odds they happen to have a house right above an entrance? It must be one of the only ones in existence."

Prentiss tersely agreed, but her mind was hardly concerned with the odds. If it wasn't here, it would be somewhere else. Creatures like Miranda found a way, no matter what. Like weeds growing up out of cement.

* * *

Reid was in the blackness again. It had been so long now he wasn't even afraid. There was an eye out there, watching him silently, but it couldn't do anything. He was waiting to die anyhow, what did he care if it sped up the process? Still, he felt sure he could feel the eye's gaze on him. Maybe it belonged to a cat? He liked cats, but this one didn't feel friendly. This wasn't a domestic cat, it was feral.

_Felis Silverstris Catus, or the housecat, is estimated to have become domesticated as long as 12 000 years ago. In the United States, there are approximately 86.4 million pet cats. However, the number of stray cats is near impossible to estimate, meaning the overall cat population could be much higher._

Reid smiled, making his cracked lips bleed again. He might be going insane, but at least he'd be a knowledgeable madman. Looking out, he tried to see the cat. It was dark though, as always. Sometimes he forgot it was all black and thought he could see things. People, mostly. His mother, the team, people he'd rescued or arrested, sometimes even just random civilians. They leaned over him, and at first he'd sat up, tried to reach them or talk to them. Now he just lay still. They weren't really there. Even if they were, he was too tired. Maybe he'd fall asleep soon, and never wake up again. That would be a relief in some ways.

There he was, thinking about death again. It wasn't healthy, but it was consuming. He had no doubts it was coming for him, and he couldn't forget it. Suddenly, he heard a noise, and another hallucination danced in front of his eyes.

Someone was leaning over him, shaking him, but he knew they weren't real. He couldn't see who they were, everything was blurry. He felt his body be moved upright, and his head tilted back. Slowly, his eyes focused painfully, being burnt by the light. Instantly, he squeezed them shut. The image burnt into his brain was enough though, and he was aware that this was no hallucination. Miranda was back.

"Hello deary, I thought I'd lost you for a second there. That would be ironic."

Reid's brain slowly began to take in information. He was confused.

"Why?"

It was all he could get out.

"My father was taken in for questioning. You were right, I suppose. I don't doubt that in a matter of minutes I'm going to be arrested. This might just be goodbye."

Reid smiled again, and the pain was worth it. They were coming. Or she was making this up to torture him. Either way, he couldn't really process it so it didn't matter. He was just numb. He felt Miranda settle down beside him. Her body was shockingly warm after all the cold and the fear. She sighed. They sat there for a few minutes, and Reid's eyes adjusted slightly. That would be impossible after so much time in the dark, but for the fact that the door was mostly closed again. There was only the slightest ray of light, just enough to let him see the contour of her face in the dark. Her eyes glistened slightly. She looked at him.

"It was a good run, I suppose. I'll make headlines. I never planned for this to be the end. I wonder if I'll be able to accept it. Probably not. I'm still young; I might yet have a chance to figure this out. Again, probably not. Still, I never had any respect for people who make endgames without really exploring their potential."

Reid should have been scared, but he wasn't. He knew her too well.

"You won't come back for me. I won." His voice was raspy and pathetic, painful to expel from his lungs and painful to listen to.

He saw Miranda's face twist into a smile. Somehow, it was the most genuine thing he'd ever witnessed.

"Yes, I guess you have won. I don't mind though, you were worthy competition. You know what, as a parting gift, I'll give you a promise. I'll resist temptation and keep you out of it if I ever manage another game. I'll fade out like a shadow."

He frowned.

"Why?"

"Because I like you enough to want you in the world. It would be a far better place if more people were less stupid. Maybe I wouldn't even have done this if it wasn't to prove how much smarter I am."

He looked at her, and they shared a knowing glance.

"You still would have done it."

She laughed.

"You know me far too well. Probably. I guess I'm just a monster."

There were a couple more minutes of silence, disturbingly comfortable silence. Just sitting there, knowing that it was over for better or worse. It was almost a sense of mutual respect. Reid knew that later he would hate himself for it, but as it was he was too tired. The game was over, and the rivals rested. It was disturbing, but he knew that he would never have this feeling with anyone else. There was a type of resignation to the fact that they knew each other far better than any other person in either of their lives.

Perhaps it was because emotions had nothing to do with it that they were able to have such an objective view. They were so intent on defeating the other that they were motivated to look excruciatingly microscopically at the other's character, but without caring about feelings. Feelings got in the way of every other relationship. Love, concern, trust. They all blocked the sort of base comprehension that Reid and Miranda had. Or maybe it was simply that they had seen each other at their most absolute primal stage. Either way, there was some sort of total perfection in the way they saw one another.

Reid wasn't proud of it. Internally he knew he'd never tell another soul about this. They would never understand. This was most likely just another mark of how desperately damaged he was, but at this point he couldn't care. Miranda looked over at him one last time. Leaning forward, her tone had a touch of regret.

"I wish I could put this off, but I suppose this is the last we'll see of each other like this. It's been a true pleasure."

They both knew what 'like this' meant. After this Reid would be back to being an agent, and any trace of this truce between them would be obliterated. They would go back to playing roles, and this understanding would never occur again.

She leaned over, and for the briefest moment touched her lips against his. It wasn't really a kiss so much as the ephemeral contact of a farewell. Their eyes met one last time before he closed his. When he opened them again, she was gone.

* * *

Greg lay on his side. He could barely register what happened. All he could recall was the freedom, the pure blank of rage, the sensation of the agent struggling as he choked the life out of him, then a sharp pain. He couldn't believe it. This was how he died? At the hand of that fucking son of a bitch? His lip curled in disgust. Grunting, he tried to lift his body, but his hand slipped on the blood and he fell back to the floor. Looking up, he saw the man staring down at him.

This couldn't be over. Not with the victim winning. She'd promised him eternity; she'd said they would never be caught. He'd promised never to fail. Now it was over, and he couldn't comprehend it. The worst part about it was that the men had been right, the ones that had said that he'd die a gruesome death if he continued to fail to control himself. It was too late now though. Too late for those thoughts.

All he could do now was try to kill the man that'd gotten him. If only his legs would work. But they failed him. Now he was feeling cold. Everything was going foggy, and he could swear that the pain was fading. He knew what that meant. He was, for the first time, really afraid.

It was uncoiling within him, the terror. Dying. He was dying. Please, not yet, please. He wasn't ready. Help him, someone. He looked up to the agent in desperation.

"Please… don't let me die… please. Help me… please."

No one came though. Slowly, he felt his mind shut down, and he fell into darkness. The last thing he felt was fear, but as his consciousness ebbed, he could have sworn he saw his life.

When he was young, his father's hatred. His mother calling him a freak when he came home with blood on his fists and coldness in his eyes. The boys who pushed and pulled until he'd learnt to push harder. Violence, a chain in his hand. Fear. Yelling at his mom. Coming home one day and finding his father dead with a bottle in one hand and the other curled around a gun. He'd still been warm, and Greg hadn't felt anything. More violence, the feeling of no control. Curling up on his bed and crying because he never felt anything when he saw blood. Pounding people to shreds so he forgot that he wasn't supposed to feel satisfaction when he did.

Seventeen, his mother screaming. He had only meant to shake her a little, just stop her judging eyes. Stop her from seeing him. But he'd lost his grip and she'd fallen, and there was blood. Court, manslaughter, juvie. He'd been hated there, and he liked it that way. Easier.

Life after, empty. Nothing but alcohol and shitty jobs. Death had looked tempting, but he wouldn't give the world the satisfaction. Meeting her. Miranda. He had looked in her eyes, and seen something familiar. Empty, like what the mirror showed him. A hole that couldn't be filled. She'd shown him everything, shown him that he didn't have to hate himself. That he could have control. Stopped his drinking. Cold turkey. Started yoga, taught him to speak.

Turns out he was actually smart, when you took away his drink and gave him something to hold onto. Brightness. He didn't have to be guilty. He didn't have to do anything but what she said, and life was his. Real life. Killing without consequence. Conversation that didn't end in punching or judgement.

Then it was over. Greg was dead.

* * *

**Wow. I am a hella screwed up person. I am realising now how messed up I am... I mean. Dude. That whole thing with Miranda is just... but it's what the plot bunnies told me had to happen. So yeah. **

**So, you probably (along with the review button) want me to hurry up this next chapter, so I'll tell you a secret: I AM ALWAYS ON MY NEW TUMBLR. So if you want to harass me, give me suggestions for my next story, tell me how much you hate me, or just get to know me, that's where to do it.**

**I've got two- my normal one with all my fangirling and such is _necromancess () . () tumblr () . () com _(remove the ()'s). That's the one you probably want to contact me on. I love you all so so so much even though you all probably hate me because I whine and don't update. **

**Anyways, talk to me babies. Please review~**


	22. Chapter 22

**So I'm back in a slightly more timely fashion. Slightly. Hey, I'm not a power ranger over here, you can't expect too much.**

**Sigh. Sorry. **

**WARNING: well, it's pretty much dying down now, so not to much to worry about this chappy. just lots of death and death thoughts.**

**DISCLAIMER: don't own. you know this by now. wish I could think of something cute to say.**

* * *

Hotch always found the normalcy of these situations disturbing. Half the time, when they chased down a killer it lead them straight into the middle of suburbia. Speeding past the streets of Seattle in a black van and arriving in front of a perfectly average house, the sensation that they had got this all wrong was overwhelming. The house was in a quiet part of the city, in one of the older areas. There were heritage houses and tall buildings with the perpetually grimy look of all things that have seen generations pass at their feet.

Miranda's house was perhaps the nicest one on the block. It was easy to see how her father had managed to hide a construction project of the size necessary from the neighbours. Her home was on a backstreets, sandwiched between two empty-looking buildings that had perhaps once had offices or shops in them. Her dwelling was the only one in the immediate vicinity that looked as if it didn't hold a dark secret. Ironic, given the drug deals and alcoholism that the other doors held were a match to the raging forest fire of Miranda's wrong doings. The entire area was shaded by knurled branches. There were two cherry trees that had grown into tangled monsters in front of her house, and they whispered to the team as they got out and marched up the stairs to her porch.

Miranda's house was white and old-fashioned looking. There were designs in the corners where the beams of the porch met the upper story, and the wood held an elegant quality. It looked like it belonged in some small town down in the south with old money and hot sun. Here, with the chilling breeze and the graffiti next door, it seemed to recede back away from the rest of the area. It looked like it was trying to be quietly humble, while hiding its true feelings of superiority. The door was painted black, which was strange, and had a silver handle which looked new.

As Hotch banged on the door, he didn't feel the rickety fragility of old wood as he expected, but the hard shell of metal re-enforcements. This house might look gentile, but it was a soldier prepped and ready for any offense.

"FBI! Open up! We have a warrant!"

The warrant had been a rush job, but fortunately they'd had a judge standing by and ready to sign. They must have set a record with the speed of the thing, but they had it. Unsurprisingly, the door remained shut. Unfortunately, it wasn't exactly easy to break down. One of the SWAT men nearly dislocated his shoulder trying to enter, so they had to get a blowtorch out from one of the vans. Hotch didn't ask why it was in there, and was simply thankful someone was prepared for this. It took them five full minutes to get inside, and each second of them dropped by like tar oozing into cracks.

Then they were in.

Miranda's house was… interesting on the inside. It was covered in art. Drawings, paintings, photographs, lace, leather, feathers, red, black, white. It was like wandering through the mind of an insane artist pushed to the brink. There were disorganised piles of books stacked every which way, and tea cups spread out like locusts in the middle of a biblical plague. The further into the house they god, the more it became clear art itself wasn't what you'd call G-rated. There was blood, gore, and more nudity than in most porn movies. Any doubts in their minds as to the identity of the killer were fast fading.

Hotch took point, and they quickly cleared the house. It took all of his restraint to actually check the house as opposed to heading straight to the basement, but he managed. Finally, they approached the door to the basement. Before entering, Hotch turned to either side. Prentiss and Rossi were right with him. They nodded to each other, and he took a deep breath before slowly opening the door. A breath of cold air floated up as he did. The entrance was dark, but the lights must have been on a motion detector because as he took his first step inside, the stairwell filled with a harsh white light.

Contrary to the aged feel of the rest of the house, the stairs were all modern. They were made of metal, and the walls had some sort of smooth finish on them which made them look glassy and black. As they descended, Hotch felt a chill up his spine. The room they entered was obviously the original basement. Though the plain walls had been re-done to look shiny and new, the cracked concrete floor looked original. It would have been freezing down there, but for all the computer equipment. It was mostly in one corner, but it was a set-up Garcia would have envied. At least nine monitors all hooked up to different gadgets and cords, most of which Hotch wouldn't have known where to begin guessing the names of.

There was also a small cot in the corner with a few meager blankets and a large metal wardrobe hanging open to reveal clothing. Spinning around, Hotch noticed a sink in the corner and a curtained off area that contained a small shower stall and a toilet. It was sparse, but it was obviously currently in use. Sniffing, he could smell what seemed to be incense, or candles maybe.

"I'd guess this is probably where Smithers lives. He's been here recently." Rossi said, scanning the place with a critical look.

To the left there were two doors, the only other entrances in the room. Behind one of them the entrance to the underground should be. Behind the other, they had no idea, but given the state of the house, it wasn't going to be pretty.

Tightening his jaw, Hotch raised his gun and pushed through the first one. As it opened, the smell of incense wafted free more strongly than ever. J.J., who was bringing up the rear, coughed violently when it reached her. It was nauseatingly strong. Wincing, Hotch prepared himself and pushed open the door.

The inside of the room was painted a crimson which had a strange shine to it where the yellow lights of about a thousand candles hit it. In the middle of the ring of them was what appeared to be a yoga mat. Around the room, incense burned. There were towels folded up in precise squares to one side, along with water bottles and a book with diagrams of the human body. It was faintly disturbing, and utterly unexpected. Hotch raised his eyebrows and backed out.

"That's some fire hazard," one of the SWAT members muttered as he looked in.

Disregarding him, Hotch moved to the second door. Behind it was what they were looking for. The room was empty, and much colder than the rest of the basement. The walls were concrete along with the floor, which was empty. Empty except for the enormous metal trapdoor. It was circular and looked like the entrance to a bank vault. It was covered in locks and bolts, but curiously enough it appeared as if they were all unlocked except for one basic combination lock. The team surrounded it and looked for a few seconds.

"Why is it mostly unlocked? And how to we get the combination?" McAllen's tone was confused and impatient, which was a decidedly bad mixture. Hotch sighed, wishing everything could just be easy for once.

"Probably because Miranda and Greg aren't out of the house- they're both down there and didn't want to lock themselves in from the outside. And I have no idea where we're going to get the combination. Any suggestions?"

Prentiss and J.J. shared a look while Rossi looked at the ground.

"If Reid was here maybe, but Miranda's a genius… It's probably some random series of numbers which she'll have been far too careful to leave lying around." Prentiss said.

"I got an idea." They all turned to the leader of the SWAT team. "We can either wait them out, or we can just pop it open with some explosives. I can call up the bomb squad and get it set up in ten minutes tops."

The team looked at each other. It wasn't normally their style, but chances are that Miranda had an escape plan somewhere and the longer they gave her, the more time she had to implement it. Hotch pursed his lips.

"Make the call."

The man nodded and walked out of the room, already whipping off orders into his walkie-talkie. The team looked at each other. Ten minutes. It was like there was an enormous pressure exuding from the walls, pushing them. Ten minutes. Getting closer and closer, worse and worse as every second passed. Nothing to do now but wait, and hope that what they found down there wasn't as bad as what they all dreaded.

* * *

Morgan pulled himself slowly closer to the door. The fight had taken a lot out of him. Perhaps too much. It's a scary feeling, knowing the life is draining out of you. When you can literally feel that light, that essence of what makes us keep ticking on day by day, fading. Grasping with fingers, trying to hold smoke or steam. Feeling the strength leave your bones, fleeing into the air. He felt cold. Really, really cold. Internally, he tried to focus his mind on assessing his injuries, but he didn't like what his mind told him. He knew he didn't have long left.

Slowly wrenching himself into an upright position, he began stumbling towards the door. He had to get out of here. If he got out of here, he could find a phone. He could save himself and Reid. He could find Reid. He just had to get to the door. His vision twisted and faded out for a second. The world was turning around him, and he could barely understand what direction gravity was pulling him in. Reeling, he closed his eyes for a second to try to regain some semblance of balance. Bad idea, again. He nearly fell to the side, only barely catching himself in time. Slowly, a throbbing pain materialised at the front of his head. Blinding red pulsing blackouts undermined his vision as he continued walking forwards. It was hopeless, but he couldn't give up. Just a few more steps to the door. Pausing, he heard something from behind him.

Greg was dying much faster than Morgan was. A pool of red was fast expanding its territories over the floor, invading one tile after another. He had managed to flop over into some sort of half on his back, half on his side position and was gasping like a dying goldfish held over its bowl. His voice was faint, but Morgan could have sworn he heard Greg begging. The possibility was nonsensical, of course, this was Greg they were talking about, but it gave Morgan no small satisfaction none the less. He felt no guilt. What was dying on the floor right now wasn't a man. Not a person, not a human being, just a series of actions that caused pain. A series of actions he'd brought to an abrupt halt.

Turning back to the task at hand, he pulled himself the next few steps to the door. Reaching it, he took a moment to catch his breath, leaning against the frame.

BOOM.

All of a sudden he felt a shaking in the very frame of the door, pitching him onto the floor. The echo of the muffled explosion rung around and around in his head. Had it been his imagination? He really couldn't trust himself these days, given he was half-dead and in a seriously screwed up place mentally. And corporally, for that matter.

He tried to get to his feet, but collapsed with a cry. Gritting his teeth, he focused on thoughts of getting out of this God-forsaken place. Yanking himself upright, he all but fell forwards and out the door. That was all he could manage though, and he felt his knees buckle and twist beneath him. All of a sudden his body became a rag doll, all bones and joints with no muscle to hold it in place. His body twisted and slunk to the side as he collapsed out into the hallway.

He could feel it again, the sucking, the life leaving his bones. It was different this time, more final. He'd held it off for those few precious minutes, but no longer. It wasn't going to fade that easy this time. His hand, pressed to his side as if to hold it in, slowly lost traction and fell to the floor. The cold underneath his cheek was soothing, and his headache began to fade. Too late he realised soothing was the last thing he needed. Lulling into sleep, his last panicked thoughts flickered through his mind.

_I have to find Reid. I have to get him out of this._

_I'm dying._

_Is this how it ends?_

_They're going to cry. I don't want that._

_Am I going to heaven?_

_Do I really believe it exists?_

_I… can't… please… _

He barely noticed his eyes closing, barely noticed his heart slowing. Barely noticed the black that overtook his vision.

* * *

The enormous door fell open with a resounding boom. Too resounding. The team remove the ear mufflers the bomb tech had handed them seconds before the explosion and rushed into the room. The blast had been concentrated on the locking system, and had managed to blow it out. The cost, however, was any attempt at secrecy they could have possibly hoped for. The door fell inwards and the team slowly lowered themselves into the hole, Hotch leading.

The tunnel looked like something out of a science fiction movie, all steel and shine. It was disturbingly impossible, cold and invincible. Something like this shouldn't be here, under that old white house, in the middle of a goddamn city. It was inconceivable, but their eyes weren't lying. They crept forwards like they were invading some long lost settlement on Mars, as if any wrong step could spell disaster. Something was wrong, the silence spoke of deeds already done and stories already ended. Ended, most likely, not with a happy every after.

The tunnel was bright at the start where they were, but it soon faded to black where the motion-detector lights hadn't registered their presence yet. Squinting into the dark, Hotch began moving forward. As the lights turned on in front of him with a vaguely funereal air, he began to notice a black shape on the ground in the distance. At first he thought he was imagining it, but as they proceeded it became clear it was definitely there. It was lying outside a black hole in the wall, which became an open door of the same type as the one they'd exploded as they inched forwards. They moved more slowly, expecting some sort of ambush.

Soon the shape took on edges, and then it was a body. When they realised whose it was, there was a gasp from Prentiss, and all of a sudden being cautious was of very little importance. Rushing forwards, Prentiss and Rossi knelt down beside Morgan, feeling for a pulse. They couldn't come this far and get this close, only to lose him.

"I've got a pulse, but it's weak and inconstant. We need an ambulance stat."

Hotch nodded, and a police officer began talking quickly into his walkie-talkie. Looking at Morgan was too much. He had obviously been through hell and more, and Hotch didn't want to speculate on his survival chances. He ducked into the open door, and his eyes turned sad. He was supposed to protect his agents, and yet with them minutes away Morgan had done what should have been impossible. Bracing his jaw, he ducked out of the room. Right now he needed to find Reid, and figure out what had happened here. He was missing puzzle pieces, and he didn't like it.

"I've got a body in here. It's Smithers." He turned. They didn't want to leave Morgan, but they had to keep going.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish." The expression on Prentiss' face was livid.

"I'll stay with Morgan, you guys keep going." J.J. said.

Nodding, Hotch raised his gun again. Walking more quickly, the team (or what was left of them) passed several more rooms, all of which were unlocked and empty. A few had blood smears on the walls, some had chandeliers, and all were painted strange colours and patterns. The whole place was abandoned feeling, and far too silent. There was a stillness in the air, and it felt like refrigerated death. Cold, clammy, and lurking. Maybe it was the ghosts of the victims that had met their ends here, watching and glaring at those who disturbed them. It was unnerving to say the least.

They reached a cross roads faster than expected. The tunnel had seemed like an endless infinity, and arriving at a break in it was confusing. Hotch had to blink to keep himself from becoming disoriented. This was ridiculous. He was Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner. This was the type of thing he dealt with every day, and he certainly wasn't going to let it get to him now. Turning to Prentiss and Rossi, he motioned for them to go one way with some officers while he went in the other.

This corridor was shorter, but it seemed darker somehow. Maybe it was because he was alone. He reached a corner soon, and then another. Soon there were no more rooms, but the corridor kept reaching out into the black. He felt a prickling in his stomach. Something was here. He could feel it. There was an electricity humming in the air, and as the cold white lights flickered on and on in front of him, he could feel it reaching for him. This was what they were looking for, whatever it was. He could feel the nervousness of the cops behind him. He wasn't surprised when his cell rang, and he picked it up to hear Prentiss' voice.

"Hotch. We've got nothing, we're following you."

"Good. I'm going to keep going."

Stepping more carefully, he finally turned the last fateful corner and, gun in front of him, was faced with the beast herself.

Sitting in the centre of the hallway, was Miranda. She was cross-legged with a steaming tea cup in her hand. Behind her he could see the end of the passage, which was a door. Unlike the others they'd found, it was obviously sealed tight. Hair lit up by the lights, Miranda looked like she was a doll made of china and lace. Her skin was a stony alabaster, and her eyes were cold and dead. She slowly smiled, a shark in the water. Hotch trained his gun on her, knowing the officers behind him were doing the same.

"Miranda Wellington, you're under arrest. Put your hands above your head and stand up."

She only smiled wider, darkness behind her eyes that made the temperature drop another few degrees. He heard a gulping sound as one of the cops swallowed nervously. She was terrifying. Maybe it was because her face had such an innocent beauty to it. It was like corruption given body. Her malice was unearthly.

"If I were you, I would come easily. I've been made very familiar with your file over the past few weeks, and it has removed some of my customary restraint. We are authorised to use deadly force if you resist arrest. Make this easy on yourself."

She made no move. Only continued to stare at him. Clenching his jaw, Hotch began moving forwards. Only a few of his footsteps echoed through the tunnel before he was halted by a voice. The voice was cold, calm, high, pretty, and utterly in control. Her words force the frosty air from his lungs and caught his body before he could move another inch. It was like being caught in the web of a spider, watching as she moved ever so slightly closer to sucking his insides out. Really, it was nothing more than the shock of hearing a frozen statue speak. It was unexpected and worrying.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Aaron."

Anger blistered up to combat the ice in his veins. She had no right to talk like that, no right to address him at all. Monsters don't get rights. He grudgingly accepted the need to play into whatever desperate plot she had despite this. His response was in a terse voice with scorching undertones.

"And why is that?"

She let the moment grow and flourish into a crescendo before answering.

"Because I have this."

She opened one smooth, pale hand to reveal a black device. It didn't look like much, but held an unsaid malice to it. He wondered what sort of soap she used to keep her hands looking so clean when they were filthy as sin. She waited patiently, and Hotch realised that she wasn't going to divulge on her own.

"What is that, and why should it matter to me? I'm not playing your games here, you have five seconds before I call that a weapon and shoot you."

Normally he wouldn't go so far, but he'd reached his limit on this case a while ago. The line was way behind them in the distance, and hell if he was going to try to hide behind it.

"Aaron, honey, you've been playing my game for a long time. No need to act so harsh, it's only life and death after all."

She smiled charmingly, but with her eyes it was about as appealing as a dead fish on the sidewalk. Hotch's expression didn't change at all, and the reaction she was clearly enjoying in the officers was missing. He was deadly serious, and he'd had enough of her spoiled temper tantrum. Her smiled faded to bitter poison as she looked at him.

"Fine then." Her tone was no longer lingering and dramatic; it had become clipped and even colder. "If that's the way you want it. You might have noticed the locks on the door behind me. What you can't see is my pretty Spencey on the other side of them. Now, he's not in such great shape, but he's still alive. Before you look so excited, you should know that with a press of one of these buttons I can kill him. So if I were you, Aaron, I would be a little more polite."

One of her slender digits caressed the remote almost lovingly. Hotch kept his face stony and emotionless. She fed off panic, fear and anger. He wasn't going to let her have the advantage.

"And why should I believe you?" His tone was even and calm.

"Because the cost is far too high if I'm telling the truth for you to risk it. Also, Emily, I wouldn't keep hiding if I were you. You're not going to get an opportunity."

Hotch let the line creasing his brow deepen for a second. Emily? His unspoken question was answered far too fast by the shuffling sounds of Prentiss and Rossi, along with the two officers that had gone with them walked around the corner where they'd obviously been waiting. Prentiss flashed Hotch an apologetic look as she stopped beside him. Miranda waited until the newcomers were standing with Hotch and his men before continuing.

"Now, I have a few simple demands-"

"We're not negotiating demands here. This is the way this is going to work: you are going to put that down and walk towards us with your hands up or we're going to shoot."

Hotch's voice cut through the air like a knife. One of the officers shot him a surprised glance. Miranda looked taken aback for a second, before she continued with a harder voice.

"I'm impressed. Very well, in that case you should remember I'm the only who can undo those locks. Believe me, I don't make things easy. The only person who might possibly have a chance guessing my combinations is languishing behind them, and it will take far longer for you to figure them out than for him to die. You could blow it up like you did with my front door, but you never know what traps I've set up. Either way, there's a very high chance that room will become dear Spencer's tomb. I suggest you hear me out if you want to avoid that eventuality."

Hotch didn't interrupt her, and she paused to let her words sink into the air. The seeds they spread grew into mature plants of ideas and images. Images of Reid, dead before they could reach him. When Miranda could see that the implications of what she'd said were clear, she continued.

"Now, my demands are simple. You bring me in safely, without letting any of the policemen- or civilians, come to think of it- who want me dead getting close to me. And then I want a press conference. I have no doubt this affair will end with me being locked up for a very long time. I want my place in the spotlight before I am forced to languish in some asylum. If you can promise me that, I'll open that door right now."

Hotch turned to Prentiss and Rossi. Their gazes crossed, and Rossi gave a slight nod.

"Very well. You'll have your conference, and you won't be harmed. Now you're going to put that down, let us cuff you, and then tell us the combinations. If you lie, we'll be able to tell, and if you do that, the deal is off. You don't want to know the implications of that."

Hotch's eyes looked black as he held her gaze. He looked very dangerous, and very serious. Right now, he held the entire might of the FBI behind him and that was a force nobody wanted to be at the mercy of. Miranda slowly lowered the black device and stood up. As the police officers slowly edged towards her and patted her down with expressions somewhere between fear, anger, and attempted professionalism, she smiled. He supposed she'd gotten what she wanted. They all knew she was going to use the press conference to stir up some sort of trouble, but right now that was someone else's problem. He just wanted his agents back and to never have to see Seattle ever again.

The second Miranda was secure the three agents all but ran to the door. Once they got there, Hotch pointed to the first lock.

"The combination."

Miranda smiled her little-baby-shark smile again. Really, all she did was smile and it was far, far more threatening than most people angry. She knew it too, because all she seemed to do was grin.

"5634279."

Hotch looked at her for a second.

"You're lying."

It wasn't Hotch that said it though, but Prentiss. The other two glanced at her, but didn't comment. Miranda kept her smile for a second before twisting it into a smirk and speaking.

"I would ask if you're sure, but I can tell you are. Oh well, I'm just testing. It's 6783012."

Hotch gritted his teeth, sent Miranda a warning glare, and put in the combination. There was a clunking sound from deep within the metal door. He could hear it working, which was a blessing in itself. Trusting Miranda was a risk, but they didn't have much choice. She'd been right when she'd said they were risking far too much if she was telling the truth about Reid. He wasn't sure this team would survive it if, after all of this, they lost Reid this way. Hell, for all he knew Morgan had flatlined and they were already down a teammate. This wasn't good, it wasn't even half-decent, but it was all they had.

Despite that knowledge, every second that ticked by and every number he punched in made the rock inside his stomach grow larger and denser.

* * *

Reid lay on the floor, feeling the dark crawl into his body through his mouth. Every shallow breath he took brought the shadows in, and every exhalation cast hopes out. Right now his fate was being decided, and the brief light that had broken the monotony had long left him alone. He was fading fast, wondering again if the visit had been a dream. If Miranda was lying to him, making him believe in things that weren't really happening.

It was out of his control now, but as his mind tried to escape the pain in every direction possible that thought gave him little comfort. Really, the only thing of his broken and beaten body he could feel was the stabbing pain in his chest where his broken ribs were and the dull throb in his neck where his collar still cut in. It was probably infected by now. He knew that, but he didn't really care. He would probably die. That was expected, the statistics say about 151 338 people die on an average day. He wasn't anything special.

He was scared though. Dying didn't scare him after all this time, but the tingle on his lips where Miranda had kissed him positively terrified him.

He shouldn't still feel that. That had been nothing, and it had happened a while ago. It was disturbing and scary, unnatural to the highest degree. It was proof he wasn't okay. He was never going to be okay. Not when he was probably a psychologist's wet dream. Not when he had a far easier time thinking about his poisonous, betraying lips than if Morgan was okay. Not when he was thinking about Miranda's words.

Once, after a case, Hotch had told him he understood how painful it was when the person you identify with is the bad guy. He remembered his response- _'what does that make me?'._ That, he'd been able to get over. This was different, and he doubted it could be justified as just being good at his job. This, Hotch would never be able to understand. He knew he wasn't going to be okay with this. He knew this was going to change the way he saw himself forever.

Those thoughts terrified him, deep inside. He didn't know if it was worth living never being sure if you're sane. Schizophrenia had terrified him, but knowing he could already be fundamentally broken was worse. Was it worth it, to doubt yourself and what you might become?

Maybe he should give up keeping his mind here. Maybe he should let it fly off, leave his body alone to die. Maybe he should give it up, the pain, the struggle.

Maybe he should die.

Maybe it would be better.

* * *

**So while I was writing this somehow I had a lot of Greg feels. I don't know why, I think I just really miss him. I'll miss this whole thing when it's over, which is in a few chapters. I contemplated doing a lot of recovery and such, but I don't think I'm going to. Of course, I won't just leave it like this, I'll tie up the knots and such, but I'll leave the other stuff to your imagination. You guys are good at that.**

**Gotten so hooked to Supernatural, in other news. Might need to write some fics for them next.**

**Anyways, remember to please please please review. I can't describe how much it means to me, especially when I turn out chapters I actually really like, to know what you guys think. I actually like this chapter and last one, and it makes me really happy to hear about what you guys think. This is almost over so please, please tell me what you think before I go and end it in a way that's disappointing to you. **

**I actually need to hear about what you guys think of Reid and Miranda's weird thing. I don't think I've had many comments on it, and that scares me.**

**Also, the review button is pressuring. You know the way things are. **


	23. Chapter 23

**PLEASE READ EVERYONE: **

**I'm really confused about something... I've gotten two reviews now talking about my story being in the Morgan/Reid section, and _I'm really confused. _What in the name of all things good is the Morgan/Reid section?! I can't figure out for the life of me...**

**Can someone please tell me where it is and how to stop being part of it? Because it's driving me nuts. It LITERALLY SAYS IN THE DESCRIPTION that this is NOT a Morgan/Reid story.**

**Seriously guys. Send me a private message or review or something. **

* * *

**WARNING: blahblahblah swearing I dunno some other shit blahblahblah we're pretty much through the worst of it blahblahblah if you guys have read the other chapters of this you pretty much know all of this already blahblahblah**

**DISCLAIMER: blahblahblah something witty-ish blahblahblah **

* * *

J.J. had lost track of the time she'd been staring at the floor. She had her hands on either side of her head, trying to block out the world. For once in her life, her phone was turned off. She knew that it was probably suffering from a virtual onslaught right now; she knew she had things to do. Important things, things that could make or break how the next couple weeks went down. She just couldn't bring herself to care. At all. Even a tiny bit.

Around her, she could hear the muted sounds of footsteps on the ground, some hurried, some despondent and weak. There were the noises of people talking in low voices, pens scurrying, and above all, the constant cacophony of quiet machines beeping. They were normally a background sound, a static that was easily blocked out, but now they seemed to blare like sirens. What did that one mean? Has someone's heart stopped beating? Is that the noise of a crisis, the soft ting of death?  
Anyone of those machines could spell the life or death of one of her best friends, a member of her family, and all she could do was sit here and wait. It seemed wrong, that after they'd battled so long, fought so hard, it didn't matter. In the end, everything comes down to a simple beep. Just one, and she'd be crying or smiling. When did machines become this important? When did they grow to have power over her heart? How many times did she use one in a day without thinking the toll they could take?

There was a pounding in her head, and she knew it was the result of too much caffeine and not enough sleep. She should really take some medication or something, but it seemed almost selfish to bother with such an inconsequential pain when she'd seen what Morgan and Reid must have been through. She knew it was stupid, but when logic's already failed you three times today, stupidity can be terribly comforting.

Morgan would be in bad shape when he woke up (_if he woke up_, she tucked the thought away), and J.J. was supposed to be here for him. She wasn't going to do much good if she couldn't function herself. No matter the long days of torture and fear he must have endured, she hated to think what must have happened to give him the chance to eventually stab Greg. Morgan was always taking responsibility, always blaming himself for the little bumps in the road. Even if it was to protect Reid, and J.J. knew Morgan would have been trying to protect Reid, even if the man was a murderer and a psychopath, Morgan would blame himself for his death. She'd seen it before, the 'what could I have done differently's and the 'if only's. They were a poison, and one day she was terrified he'd get a dose so strong no one would be able to find a cure.

Morgan was always so strong, but in this job you needed to be open to your own emotions in order to figure out the killers. They had to be sensitive on demand, but were taught objectivity as the ultimate defense. Morgan had always been able to do that. To reach out, to express himself when needed. He wasn't one of the robots she sometimes thought the higher ups wished they all were. Before, she had thought that made him a good guy, a great friend, and (as she'd said jokingly to Garcia in many a private occasion), incredible boyfriend material. Now all she could think was that it was that same trait that could kill him.  
As much a J.J. hated the idea of Morgan becoming one of the hard, cold professionals she'd been unfortunate enough to have to work with before, she hated the idea of him destroying himself even more. Whatever happened next, she would be there beside him- she just didn't know if she'd be able to help him as much as he needed. She had no idea who could.

_Lovely. Just another way I'm completely useless._

Feeling herself begin to teeter on the barrier between her usual, rational self and the oblivion of sadness that beckoned surprisingly tantalisingly, she stood up abruptly. They still had a case. Reid was still out there, and he needed her as well- maybe even more than Morgan. If she selfishly allowed herself to become a helpless, grieving mess now all she'd do is hurt him. Giving a firm sniff to reign in the tears she refused to believe were collecting in her eyes, she started pacing.

Brrring. Brrring.

It took her a disturbingly long time to register that her personal cell was ringing. Breaking her out of her private little bubble of thoughts and feelings and back into real time.

"It's J.J."

"Rossi." His voice was terse, and there was the hollow, echoing sound of people moving in tunnels behind him. "We've almost got Reid. We don't know if he's... okay yet, but we've got Miranda and she's given us the information we need to get to him. We had to strike a deal though, which I'm apprehensive about."

"What sort of a deal?"

"She wants a press conference. I don't know what she's planning, and I'm not sure I want to, but we need you to organise it nonetheless."

J.J. frowned, brain buzzing at a million miles an hour. Her frown deepened as her headache throbbed harder than ever. Rubbing her forehead, she talked through the pain.

"So why are we letting her have the conference? Now that we've got the information, I don't see anything binding us to our word. It probably won't go over well if she kicks up a fuss about it, but it'll go over even worse if we let her say her piece on national tv. There's about a billion ways this could go wrong, and we can't prepare for them all- or even most of them."

"I know. Believe me, I share the same reservations. But we need this to be as above board as humanly possible. I don't want this case to even go to trial. More importantly, we don't want to give her a reason not to co-operate. We're talking about a criminal genius with nothing to lose and a lot of money and power at her disposal. However, we're not going to go into this naked. I need you to start working every contact in your book. We want to make sure she can't pull anything and have the public believe it. If we get to them first, there's nothing she can do."

"You want a witch hunt."

Rossi sighed on the other end, before speaking in a clearly conflicted voice.

"I don't like it either, but it's either her or us at this point. She's guilty, we know that. We can't risk letting her free. We don't think she was directly involved in most of the actual killings, which gives her defence the obvious opportunity to claim that she had nothing to do with it, or was being controlled by her partner. We may know different, but the problem will be proving it. She might be able to weasel out of this if we give her the chance."

J.J. listened, then mulled his words over for a few seconds after he'd finished speaking. She knew that the press could be a deadly weapon, and a double edged one at that. She would have to do this subtly, but nothing about this was going to be subtle. The reporters were going to be sent into a frenzy for the inside story, the best scoop. She didn't like having to add to that frenzy by spilling blood into the water, but it was going to be necessary. She knew that. In an age of immediate satisfaction and the death of the printed word, newspapers were going to be even more desperate. Right now there were people rubbing their hands together, perhaps thinking this could be their big break, their salvation. They needed to jump on this. And they were going to jump right into the mud pit, where dirty tactics were synonymous with survival.

Some days, she hated her job. She didn't relish having to do this.

"Fine. I'll get started now. And Rossi?"

"Yeah?"

"Let me know the second you find out about Reid."

"Of course." His voice softened on these last two words.

Hanging up, J.J. took out her work cell. She couldn't make an official statement yet, she didn't have the authority to do that without talking with the team first, but there were still things she could do. Right now a standard press release was being made by someone on the force, and the world would be getting to its feet. Getting ready for the stampede. She only had a few minutes to get ahead of the tsunami that was about to crash, and she needed to take advantage of them.

Even though all she wanted to do was crawl up in fetal position on the floor and forget all of this. To get on a plane, go to her parent's house and cry on her mother's shoulder. To just go somewhere warm, and safe, and sleep. Just sleep. Just escape this whole mess.

Even though she needed, more than anything else, to be attending to Morgan and Reid, to be making sure they were going to be okay. To be helping them, healing them, watching out for them.

But she was an agent of the FBI, and she had a duty. Some days, she really did hate her job.

* * *

It seemed like it had been an eternity of undoing locks. Sometimes Miranda's singsong voice became like a background lullaby and Hotch nearly had to physically shake his head to keep him focused on her words. The numbers, droning on and on and on until he wasn't even aware of his fingers typing them in anymore. In reality, he had no idea how long it had been, but it couldn't have been longer than five or ten minutes. Something about the lack of reality surrounding the situation gave it an eery, dreamlike feel.

It was almost a surprise, then, when Hotch heard the grinding sounds of mechanics issuing from within the enormous door and, turning to Miranda, realised that the last of the locks had fallen away. He nodded to the agents beside the girl, and they pulled her away. It would not be a good idea for her to be there when they brought out Reid. There was a team with a stretcher waiting, and they moved forward as Hotch and Prentiss looked at each other one last time before pulling the slab open.

The first thing that struck Hotch about the room was the dark. It was thick, like a tangible being. The other places had been filled with the harsh glare of industrial lighting, but this one was totally black. As the door opened further, Hotch had one panicked moment when he was sure that Miranda had lied and Reid wasn't there, that he was still missing. Then enough light flowed in to reveal a terribly small, huddled shape in the corner. There was an immense amount and range of emotions that flitted though Hotch in the seconds (hours?) it took him to run over to Reid.

There was an anger, of course, but it wasn't well formed enough to be directed anywhere in particular. It was more an overarching, all-encompassing sort of anger. Rage at the universe itself for letting this happen, at himself, and the police, and Miranda, and even Reid and Morgan. Just pure anger that can only stem from the outrage of something so violently and terribly unfair, that simply never would or should happen in a world with any decency. It was the base instinct that this was WRONG, BAD and EVIL. With no other way to reconcile this feeling, it became anger.

There was guilt to. Guilt, regret, the bitter, acrid taste of blame. It was there, but not as strong as one might suppose. The real guilt would come later, when it was all over. Guilt lurks until you're sitting still and waiting, then it launches its sneak attack. It hadn't really hit yet, but it would.

The other main sensation was an overwhelming sadness and fear. He needed Reid to be alright, but mostly he needed this never to have happened to him. He knew how much pain he must be in. Hotch knew pain, he'd been shot and stabbed and had his wife killed while he was helpless. So he knew how underrated pain often was, and how deep it could cut and carve. Reid had been through enough already. He had paid his dues, he shouldn't have had to go through this. No one should, but especially not Reid. He was too young and too kind and too smart to have to go through this, and Hotch felt the tragedy with all his being in those few seconds.

Then he was bending over the broken, fragile body and feeling for a pulse, and the paramedics were pushing him aside and doing things his eyes couldn't keep up with, and for all Hotch's professionalism and stoney faces, he wanted to throw up.

They had carried him out of there before Hotch could do anything, figure anything out, before he even knew if Reid was alive. But the paramedics looked like they were in a panic, and as far as Hotch was concerned, that was good. People don't panic over the dead, not with so much urgency they don't even ask if anyone wanted to ride with them in the ambulance.

Hotch walked out of the vault feeling dizzy and disoriented, but swallowed it down and whipped off a few orders to the officers surrounding the scene. Then he and Prentiss and Rossi walked off after Reid. They knew they could be gathering evidence, inspecting things, but they only had one place to be right now, and that was in the hospital with Reid and Morgan. The police could go ahead and do their jobs, cleaning up after Miranda and Greg. They were a capable force, despite the corruption and politics that had plagued the BAU throughout their investigation. They would take over now.

The team's work here was done, but they still had a lot of road to travel before this was truly behind them.

As they walked back through the tunnels, they passed Miranda being held by four agents. She must have been there when they wheeled Reid out on the stretcher. Hotch hated the idea of her getting to see him again, and had to bite down the urge to lunge at her and prevent her from hurting anyone again. Frankly, though, it wasn't her hurting other people that he was really concerned about so much as making her pay for the ones she'd already killed. She smiled at him, looking right into his eyes. She didn't say anything, for once. She just stared. Hotch clenched his jaw and looked away. He didn't know how, he didn't know when, and he didn't know where, but he was going to make her pay for what she'd done to his team. As far as he was concerned, she was already dead. The box just needed ticking.

* * *

Everything around Prentiss felt blurry and vague. There was a sense of lucidity, of reality tenaciously grasping at the corners of her vision, but it was trumped by a feeling of floating.

Floating high above her body, away from all of this. For the past few weeks, she'd been keeping herself focussed and alert by placing all of her considerable mental energy on her primary objective: catching the un-sub. Now that was gone, and her emotional circuits had been shorted. All she was left with was the loss of any control over the situation. There was nothing to do, nothing except wait for the next few critical hours to be over. It brought everything to an adrenaline filled high, a freefall of momentary sensation, then left her with her blood thrumming through her veins and not much else.

Fortunately, there was a bitter undercurrent of hate and worry to keep her tethered. It was a river of ice amidst the heat and mirages. Refreshing, but venomous to taste.

The ride in the van was full of a terse silence. Following the ambulance wasn't easy with the speed it was going, but Hotch had been in enough chases to keep up. Prentiss felt herself slowly sinking back into her body, becoming aware that the seat belt was digging into her shoulder a little and that one of her feet had fallen asleep. She imagined this is what coming down off a drug high would feel like, colliding with the real world at break-neck speed.

The hospital was close enough that they were there in a matter of minutes, thrusting the SUV into a random parking spot. They'd probably get a ticket, but Prentiss couldn't imagine a parking officer brave enough to collect from the FBI.

It was depressing how familiar the walls of the hospital were, a constant reminder of how much time the team had spent in these buildings. They all looked the same, and after a while, they became background noise. White halls and pastel shades, neutral and inoffensive. Prentiss didn't like the coolness of the palette; she'd always been one for deep reds, dramatic blacks, and warmly pale tones. It didn't take a forensic psychologist to figure out that Prentiss' mind was concerning itself with these trivial thoughts to distract itself from the reason they were here.

Her heart was hammering by the time they reached the ward J.J. was waiting outside of, looking thoroughly distressed.

"Any news?"

Prentiss' greeting may have seemed curt, but under the circumstances it was the only thing she could choke out. This was wrong, all wrong. This wasn't how things were supposed to go, and now that they'd 'won' the game, the tragedy was crashing around her ears.

"Not yet."

The team sat down, and waited. There was a tense silence in the air, and though they should have been consoling one another, they didn't. Instead, they sat in their individually wrapped containers of silence and worry. It was a rather pathetic sight, all of them in the same room yet so totally distant. Their thoughts were shields, engulfing and encompassing them. Occasionally a nurse or a random visitor would give them odd looks. The team didn't even register them. They had larger concerns.

It was an hour in this state before the spell was broken. A doctor appeared, wearing scrubs and a surgical mask he pulled from his face as he approached. He looked tired, worn out, no doubt, from surgery. He didn't even bother asking if they were the BAU, it was obvious.

"I'm Doctor Freeman, I just finished surgery on Agent Morgan."

The teams movements were small, but they revealed a lot. Hotch leaned forwards, eyes boring into the man. Prentiss and J.J. exchanged glances and Rossi seemed like a statue becoming animate again.

"Well?" Hotch asked the question on all their minds.

"I'm glad to say it was a success. It was touch and go for more than a minute there, but he's stable for now. I don't think he'll be conscious for a while, but you should be able to individually see him. I can give you a full description of his injuries, but perhaps you'd rather do that somewhere more… private."

Prentiss heard the hesitation in his voice, and it scared her like nothing else.

No doctor who'd spent most of his life treating horrific injuries in the ER of a big city hospital hesitated like that for anything but the worst. She'd been hoping that it hadn't been all that bad, that he'd be back to work in a couple weeks. Maybe he'd have to do some desk work, he'd bitch about it and they'd laugh. The way he said that Morgan was stable for now made it very clear that the situation could change. However, despite the implications of the doctor's tone, Prentiss couldn't help but heave a great sigh of relief. Morgan was alive. Even if he wasn't okay, even if he wouldn't be okay for a while, even if everything changed, he was alive right now. That was more than she'd had for a very long time.

Hotch, on the other hand, wasn't celebrating. It was clear from the set of his jaw that he was acutely aware of the situation they were in.

"What about the other agent, Reid? He was just brought into ER. Have you heard anything?"

The doctor made a faint grimace. It was obvious he didn't want to have to see another case like Morgan's in the near future.

"No, I've been in surgery for the past few hours. You can ask one of the nurses at the front desk though, they might be able to help you."

It was obvious they doctor was tired, so they let him go. Only after Hotch had explained in a voice that wasn't exactly threatening, per se, but very serious, exactly what would happen if he shared the information he had with the media. J.J. talked to a few nurses, and the BAU settled down for more waiting. There was nothing else to do. They'd learn about Reid when they learned about Reid.

It was a while before anyone broached the topic of Morgan. By some strange consensus, no one had mentioned visiting him yet. Eventually, J.J. stood up. When the others looked at her with unspoken questions hanging in their eyes, she smiled sadly.

"I'm going to go see Morgan."

There was a communal sense of relief. No one wanted to leave him alone, but no one wanted to see what he looked like first. As if by starving off the unknown they could eliminate its threat. When J.J. came out, twenty minutes later, her makeup was slightly smudged around her eyes. She offered a less than convincing reassurance that she was fine, then Hotch got up and left in the direction she'd come from.

Soon it was Prentiss' turn, and she'd given up on trying to lie to herself about how worried she was. As her feet tapped solemn patterns on the linoleum, she tried to reconcile her need to comfort him, be with him, and forget that any of this had happened. Everything was faintly blurry and hollow around the edges of her vision, and she reached the door far faster then she'd like to. She paused, noticing how the blinds were drawn and how the light hit the metal knob her hand was resting on. The whole thing reeked of sterile security, and she thought of how much Morgan hated places like this.

That thought pushed her forwards. Morgan didn't want to be here, and the least she could do was give him some company apart from the beeping of machinery and the sound of his breath. Steeling herself, she twisted the doorknob and entered the room.

It was darker inside than she expected. The rest of the hospital was flooded, typically, with flat bright light, and the contrast was disorienting. Morgan was lying in the sole bed, hooked up to an IV drip and a few other things besides. His skin had a faintly grey tinge to it where it wasn't bruised or cut, and Prentiss internally thanked whatever gods were out there that the sheets were pulled up to his chest. She didn't think she could bear seeing the terrible aftermath of the images Miranda had sent them. As it was it was bad enough. He looked so terribly small, handsome face tainted by pain and injury.

Contrary to her belief, seeing Morgan in this state didn't frighten her any more. Rather, she found herself going to his side on some strange instinct and pulling up a chair. Seeing the fact for herself, in front of her, it lost its power to freeze her. She was still worried and sad and a cornucopia of other things besides, but now she could act. He was fragile, he was broken, but he was here and that was something. Something she could work with.

She sat there for a long time, not daring to touch him, but needing to comfort his sleeping form. So she talked. She spoke about everything she hadn't been able to all those days of hate and confusion and politics. She told him how much she missed him, how she'd been worried the entire team would fall apart if this went badly, how she hadn't slept in three days, how it scared her that she was so attached to this team that it would affect her this badly. She hated the idea of not being able to get over a loss, but she hated the idea of one of them getting hurt even more. It was mindless purging, but there was something there. A feeling of comradery. It was a promise, that no matter what he'd gone through she would understand and listen. That she trusted him, even if he didn't always trust himself. That she would shoulder some of the burden. All of it, if need be.

Her eyes felt a little damp, and she was tempted to cry it all out then and there. Totally empty herself, dump it all into the cosmos in heaving sobs and gasping breaths. But that would be wrong, wrong to cry when Morgan was alive but Reid might not be. Wrong to empty herself when they still had so much worked up inside them. She resisted the urge, and stood up suddenly. She'd been a while already, who knows how long, and she could have missed news about Reid.

She turned back to the slumbering, but far from peaceful, form of her friend and ally. She smiled a sad goodbye (for now, always for now) before gently closing the door behind her.

* * *

The paramedics hadn't thought that Reid would make it. He had flatlined when they found him, then again during treatment. His care hadn't been a decision so much as a reaction when they found him. It was obvious he had internal bleeding, and combined with his malnutrition and general state of abuse, it should have been deadly. Fortunately, they managed to patch up the bleeding in time, but only just before everything else went to Hell in a handbag. One of the broken ribs was dangerously near to puncturing a lung, he was dehydrated to the point where losing even a little blood could kill him- and there was more than a little blood.

It was disconcerting seeing the attempts at cleaning and bandaging of the wounds that had been made. They weren't expert, but they had probably saved the agent's life. Right now though it was frustrating and time consuming to have to cut them off. They were dirtied and could easily have picked up germs that would later cause infections as well, so they could just as easily kill him now.

They were worried about brain damage because of the extent of his physical condition, not to mention the unconsciousness, so they'd have to run tests. Right now they were just trying to keep him stable and balance the cocktail of drugs they needed to treat his various injuries. It didn't help that when they drew up his file for pre-existing conditions there was a note about being careful of the amount of morphine they administered. The doctor had seen notes like this before, and it complicated things. A lot.

These procedures were painful enough with the buzz of narcotics, and this could put him into shock. Also, substituting certain drugs could have negative effects when combined with the medication keeping his infections in check and his heart from racing to its doom and his body from shutting down without nutrients.

What made it all the more frightening, is when they were in the midst of keeping him stable, he began murmuring feverishly. It was mostly nonsense, things about angels. It was the kind of stuff you saw in horror flicks and tv shows. Religious mania, near death experiences. It wasn't the kind of thing you were supposed to hear in an actual emergency room, in an actual hospital. They shot something in his IV tube, and the muttering subsided. Soon he began moaning though, as if frightened. They began working faster. They couldn't risk a panic attack. Putting him back under, they tried not to dwell on the implications of what he'd been through. It was hard enough treating patients with this level of injury without adding whatever psychosis containment and torture could induce in even the most stable people.

And though the doctor knew that this man was an FBI agent, he couldn't help but remember the note in the file and think that his patient was probably not one of the most stable people.

He began stitching faster.

* * *

While Reid was on the table, while Morgan was deep in the depths of his subconscious, while the team waited in uncomfortable hospital chairs deep in their own thoughts, there was a tapping.

A tapping on the wall of the cell they'd thrown her into. No need to ask who she was, they knew who she was. The whole city knew who she was. She would make sure of that. She had a plan, and she didn't care who knew it. Her plan, though, was old and boring. Stale, dry on her tongue. She derived no pleasure for contemplating it. She wanted to put it into action. It had been so long since she'd had a lull like this. Since she'd been so devoid of entertainment, devoid of options and schemes and fresh tortures for her playmates. Now all she had was the dusty remnants of her 'end game'. It had seemed so smart, all those years ago. Now it seemed dull. Textbook.

Maybe she'd throw it away, try to do some damage before she was gunned down. That would be good. A blaze of glory, rippling fire and bullets around her as she laughed in the face of them and their petty fear. Become death incarnate, become the goddess among mortals Greg always said she was.

Then she thought of Spencey. He was different. He'd beaten her, and they both knew it. In some way which defied all logic, all reason or rational processing, she had been conquered. By surviving, perhaps, or by uncovering her plan. In front of her. Like a stranger, undressing your lover with strong, slow motions. Pulling aside clothing, leaving it naked and exposed. She'd taken that personally. Very personally.

And yet she wasn't angry.

She didn't regret him surviving. After all, he was worthy. He understood, he was the same as her. Of course, he was justice on a white horse bloodied by battle and she was the black queen, waiting and plotting for her own corrupted whims. They were destined to meet, to clash, and she'd engineered the whole thing. Somehow, though, she felt that even if she hadn't drawn him into her web, they would have played this game. It was fate. It was the meeting of the two mighty beasts in the same territory. The world, their world, was blank and empty. There were small amusements, distractions, but nothing that could register as a rival in a desert of unintelligence.

She reminded herself that she had been captured by a team of normals. Then she smiled chillingly to herself. Captured, but not beaten. She had an ace up her sleeve- and even if she didn't, even if she tossed the plan aside like the dull, dried out skeleton it was, she was still alive. And where there's life, there's room for plotting. Plotting was what she was best at.

However, in the end the world would remain barren and empty for her. She was alone, terribly alone, stalking the sea of death and grey. She wanted someone smart enough to fight her, someone with the right knowledge combined with the right instinct and the right tendency. Spencer was perfect.

There would be others, she was sure. There would be disillusioned police chiefs with drinking problems and rugged charisma. There would be poets and dancers, schemers and planners. But Spencer would be her first. He would always be her first. Her first challenge, her first clash. Her first real conversation. She liked conversations. It would be nice to play some more.

She had a plan, and it was a good plan. But staring at the wall, it seemed contrite and ridiculous. He had beaten her, after all. To pursue victory, even after defeat, was something heroes did. On her, in her happily donned robe of villainy, it seemed desperate. It was unclean, undignified. It left a bad taste in her mouth.

She tapped the wall at an increased pace. She could feel the reverberations travelling up her arm, into her body. The paint on her nails was beginning to look ragged. Soon it would chip. She cared far less that she thought she would.

Her plan wouldn't work, she could see that now. She could struggle, but she would be convicted. She might be able to stir up controversy, but she'd seen the look in Aaron's eyes. Controversy wouldn't be enough. All it would do was eliminate any sort of class or mystery she was hoping to salvage from the wreak that was her public figure.

She sighed, and turned her eyes from the wall. She could smell the fear on the guards. The tapping was frustrating them. In about thirty seconds, the guard of the left would smack the cell bars and tell her to stop. She could see it on him, the way the fear transmuted so easily to anger.

Miranda, not for the first or the last time in her life, was abysmally bored with her life. Her plan was tired and grey, her careful decisions had been proven flawed and impotent, and she felt the internal push. The need. It had gotten worse, gotten more intense. She needed the kill, needed the challenge and the fear. She needed… She desired, she felt her entire being struggling for just one more high.

She was tired of her plans and plots.

No doubt it wouldn't last, but for now, she wanted a blaze of glory. She wanted to fuck the world, she wanted her rebellion to be complete and untainted by anymore useless deceits and lies. She wanted to play her actual part, she wanted to show them all how much they were beneath her. She wanted to make her legacy complete, she wanted to stain the streets of this city with her colour, and her colour was red. Bright, bright red. She was tired of being the white queen, in pastels and angel wings. She was dressed in Hearts, and she still had a few more heads to chop.

CRASH.

"Stop that tapping!"

* * *

**So yeah.**

**I know I'm a poop. **

**Sorry?**

**The review button is taking it hard as well. It hasn't spoken in a month, except to scream obscenities at the wall.**

**So please, for its sake, and not mine... tell me what an asshole I am or something...**

**AND CAN SOMEONE PLEASE CLEAR UP THE WHOLE 'WHAT THE HELL THE MORGAN/REID SECTION IS' THAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT AT THE START?**

**Sorry if it seems like I'm angry about that, it's because I'm kinda tired of taking shit about this, because I can't figure out for the life of me where I listed this as Morgan/Reid.**


	24. Chapter 24

**So I've been meaning to upload this, but I've been pretty busy. Don't have time to write my usual notes, ect, so I'm updating it now without instead of in a few days and with. :)**

* * *

There was… light. It was bright, but blurry and confusing through the groggy haze of sleep still clinging to Morgan.

He felt pain, but for the first time in a long time it was masked by a sort of sludge. It felt like something was holding down his limbs, making them leaden. He couldn't feel restraints, but something was making him unable to move. A wave of panic crashed over him, and his brain began grinding into action. What was going on? The last thing he remembered was the door, and Greg… and Reid? Where was Reid?

He tried to sit up, but felt the same weight holding him down. There was a beeping sound now, and he realised that his eyes weren't really open. He wrenched himself into the light, feeling someone pressing down on him. Someone was trying to keep him from moving, of course this nightmare wasn't over, it was never over. He tried to reach out- _he had to help Reid, he had to get out_- but now there was more noise and more lights, and he felt his limbs getting heavier again. He was being tied down, maybe it was a drug? What new Hell was waiting for him on the other side of this? No- he had to get away!

He made one last great effort to pull himself from his restraints. It was good, he felt himself being pulled upwards, at last. Then the snakes of darkness in the corners of his vision pulled him back down, and he was under again.

He didn't know how much time had passed when he began to awaken again. It wasn't that he'd been aware of things happening, but that he felt… different. The air, maybe. He could have sworn he'd heard Prentiss' voice, but that was impossible. This time he felt the pain. It was masked with whatever had been pumped into him, but it was a dull ache that nothing could take away really. The sort of pain that sat in your bones, in the nooks and crannies of your limbs and simply remained. It didn't stab or prod, but it slowly sank its way deeper and deeper down, until you were sure nothing would ever alleviate it. It was the noise of his body groaning, ever fibre stretched and compressed until they couldn't take the strain.

There was darkness around him, but he was aware of something sharp behind it. Light, maybe. Slowly, he became aware of a beeping. Steady. It picked up speed slightly. There were other murmurings, something colouring the background of his awareness. He wanted to try to hear it, understand it, but somehow he knew that trying to would only hurt him. Too much stimulus to a body that was already weak.

He didn't know how long he'd been out. What had happened? Was Reid still alive? Where was he?

The beeping was getting more incessant, speeding up. He wanted to swat it away like a fly, but that was impossible. Nonetheless, his hand twitched. It was a spasm, the uncontrollable urge to take some sort of control manifesting itself.

The beeping was getting worse.

He felt his eyes crack open, and they were met with a flood of light. He wanted nothing more than to hide away from it, float back into the abyss which had held him for so long, but there was something inside him that wouldn't let him. It was yanking at him, tugging at his hands and feet and eyes.

Morgan's face scrunched, flinching from the awareness.

He tried to block the light, but his hand caught. There was something metal around it, something that bit like frost.

Handcuffs.

Miranda. Escape. Greg, the fight, he needed to get out before he lost his chance, quickly now, but the beeping was getting louder.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

There was a warm touch on his arm, and it felt familiar, somehow.

"Morgan, you need to calm down. You're safe now. Morgan. Morgan!"

He knew that voice, and his nerves slackened slightly. It wasn't possibly, but he felt her here. Something of her perfume, maybe, or her presence had permeated the air. There was urgency to her voice, and he wondered why.

"Morgan, you're in the hospital. They had to restrain you to stop you from hurting yourself. Relax. You're safe. You're fine now; everything's going to be okay."

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

He felt his grasp flickering, but the hope was there and he couldn't help grabbing it before he disappeared back into the blackness.

"Prentiss?"

There was a response, but he felt himself falling, and he didn't quite hear it. Only the beeping, playing him out like a childlike, monotonous orchestra.

Morgan was back again. He could feel it creeping up, the awareness. They're been a few times he'd gotten close, smelt a subtle scent playing through the air or heard a fragmented, distorted sound issuing from the outside realms. This was different. It was complete and cohesive, everything filtering together into being awake.

There wasn't the same panic. There was something different this time. Awareness. He could feel himself, not just the panicked animal thrashing to be free. It was time to open his eyes. He could feel it, not some raw wound but the start of scarring. He needed to see what was around him. Not scrabbling out of a reaction to protect, but because he was needed and he could feel it, feel that he needed to do this. Face this, because he didn't know what this was, and that's why he needed to open his eyes.

Just open them. Open them. Open.

He felt a shadow of tension flicker of his mind. Come on. Open.

Open.

Open.

OPEN.

He should be able to do this. It was time.

Open.

There it was! A twitch, like some great beast moving in its sleep, beneath layers of mud and rock.

Definitely a twitch.

He could do this.

Unveil that crack, let the light in. It had been eons since he's last seen the world, and the world needed his sight. It needed him. He needed this. It was easy.

He could do this.

Now.

Open.

And he almost cried when the light was there, waiting for him.

J.J. paused, if only for some respite from the clacking of computer keys. It had become like a background noise over the years, only now each tap was a pound in her head. She rubbed her forehead, pressing fingers deep into her skin, wishing she could push hard enough that her skull would give way. Just a hole big enough to relieve the pressure.

Frowning, she returned to the computer screen. Thinking about headaches made her think about Reid.

It had been six hours since Morgan had woken up for good and there was still no news about the younger agent. The doctors had come away from it grim. The words '_now it's up to him' _were spinning around her head like children screaming on a circus ride. Impossible to ignore; flashy and bright. She hated them for the blame they were laying down. As if, if worst came to worst, it was because he didn't fight hard enough. She had almost spun around and used the words that bubbled up like acid, but that wouldn't help anyone. They were doing their best, this was a state of the art facility, and in the end years of diplomacy and picking the right words wore off.

She wished it hadn't sometimes, that she could scream her emotions to the winds without automatically blocking them before they could dance the final step off her tongue.

Jenifer looked back down at the screen. There were only a couple hours before the conference, only a couple hours to pick and chose what information they were going to release to the public. She had called in more favors in the past few hours than she had in months of working for the BAU. She wasn't much, but in the end the system was just flawed enough for one liaison to make a difference. And she was a very good liaison.

Right now she was typing an email that would hopefully get to Rupert Lawson before the conference was over. If she could get one of the loudest voices in defense of cleaning up the streets to hear what Miranda had to say, he was bound to pump an article out before the next publication of his magazine. She just had to word it in a way that didn't actually say that she wanted him to come. That would have all sorts of legal implications if it came up in court. It wasn't strictly illegal, she supposed, but it didn't look good on paper. Or on a computer screen. Or anywhere, really.

"_I really need a break after all this madness. What do you think of drinks? I'd love to get your professional opinion on some of what's been going on lately. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. After this press conference I won't have to deal with this anymore, and I'm looking forwards to getting some sleep."_

No. Too much, she didn't want to imply that she was doing anything for the press conference. She needed something less formal. He was, after all, a friend.

"_I really need a break after all this madness. There's been too much pain and worry lately. How do drinks sound? I need to get out of hospitals and police stations for a bit. I was just reading about a bar here in a magazine- Artsui, I think it was. We haven't gotten a chance to speak in person in a while, and it seems like your kind of place. I would love your opinion on the aforementioned madness. _

_I'm free anytime after this press conference. I'm sure you of all people have heard about it."_

More personal, that was good. Perhaps mentioning the bar's name was too cavalier. She wanted to sound concerned. Worried. Stressed was also good. That shouldn't be hard.

"_I really need a break after this-"_

"How long has it been since you got some sleep?"

J.J. jerked slightly in her chair. Rossi was behind her holding two cups of something she really hoped had caffeine in it. She took one of the cups and blew on it, pushing away the cloud of steam. If only this case would dissipate like that.

"Thanks."

He eased into the chair next to hers with a slight sigh. He had obviously been on his feet for a long time. There was no other explanation for actually enjoying sitting in a hospital chair. He was clearly taking her acceptance of the cup as a sign of welcome.

"You didn't answer my question. You're not going to be any help to anyone if you can't see straight. You've done all you can, you need to let go."

Rossi's tone was gentle. Sometimes he reminded her of a wise, old, Italian wizard.

Holy crap she really did need sleep.

"I can't do that. Not right now. You saw what the un-sub, she, did to them. Would you let go?"

"No. And between you and me, I didn't think you would either. At least now I can say for the record I tried, with God as my witness."

She gave him a half smile.

"Come on, at least take a break. It'll give you some perspective. Let's go visit Morgan- have you talked to him since he woke up? I think Prentiss is still with him. I would tell you to call Garcia so we can make a party out of it, but she's probably already virtually there."

J.J. frowned. She felt a little guilty. Morgan was only down the hall, and she'd only seen him once, just after he woke up. She knew he'd understand, but still… they'd spent so long trying to find him and Reid, and now she had them back.

"Okay, but only a short visit."

Rossi crossed himself.

"You have my most solemn word."

As she closed the door to the tiny room she'd found to work in, she was bracing herself. The hospital was busy, and she knew how easy it was for information to spread these days. Just one person tweeting about how they thought they'd seen the FBI agents and she'd have to deal with a media storm. She done it before, far too many times, and she didn't relish the prospect.

Fortunately, nothing seemed out of place. Once again, she was glad that Garcia was so good at her job. J.J. could do a lot to prevent things like that happening, but she couldn't do enough. Working with the techie was like being able to flick a switch.

A man was walking past them holding an IV drip. He was slow, shuffling. J.J.'s eyes lingered on him, and all of a sudden she was terrified to see Morgan. She'd already seen him covered in blood, then bandages, but it could be worse. What if something happened and this was permanent? She didn't want to see him weak like that, not when he was so strong.

She banished the thought. That sort of doubt wasn't allowed.

She wondered if Robert would understand what she was saying? Probably, he was a remarkably smart man. They'd worked together a few times, even, back in the old days. He would understand in a matter of seconds what she meant. Then maybe she could afford to be subtler in her wording. Maybe she should ask him about his wife and kids… that would emphasize their personal connection to anyone who read it later, and give more credence to her case.

She thought back to the other precautions she'd taken. She'd made sure to word the releases to the media so that they recited the travesties that their suspect, Miranda, had taken. She'd called everyone she knew around here, and let them know that she feared the worst. She'd personally sent a message to the whole police department to show them that she still believed in the cops, and that together they could take down this one blight of corruption that made the rest of them look bad. She'd chosen the location in the courthouse specifically, it was the same stark room several convicted killers had publicly been interviewed (nothing like subliminal messaging), and podium was positioned to make her look taller. That plus the camera angles would eliminate the impression of her being tiny and fragile, at least enough so that the potency of the effect was lessened and (oh God!) they were at Morgan's room.

The door glided open.

The door glided open, and clicked behind her.

The door glided open, and clicked behind her, and Morgan was fine.

He was bruised and battered, he couldn't sit up or even really move his head. There were shadows of guilt and pain and things she didn't want to even think about swathing him as well as his bandages. There were problems, there were broken bones, there were more painkillers than she ever wanted to think about. There were internal issues like ticking time bombs, waiting to go off at the least opportune moment. He wasn't out of the woods; there was still a chance that something would go wrong. There was pressure of all sorts of internal organs. There was a death on his hands.

And in his eyes, she could see that familiar dubious glance, and she could tell he still half-thought this was a dream.

But he was fine.

It would be a battle, uphill and unfair, but they would do it. Because he was Morgan, and surviving horrible things was what he did.

So when she saw the bandages and the IV drips, and the beeping heart monitor, she ignored them. Instead she looked into his eyes, where her Morgan was hiding just underneath a layer of Hell on Earth. She looked at his smile. She listened to his voice.

"Hey Jayje."

"Hey Morgan."

And that was all she needed. Her family was home. Reid would wake up, and Miranda wouldn't matter anymore. They still had the future, and they would be able to do with it whatever they needed to do to survive.

She was the past, and the past always dies eventually.

Blood.

Miranda leaned forward to inspect her handiwork. It had been tough to scrape away the paint with only the plastic fork and her nails (which were looking a little ragged), but it was worth it. She smiled a little and hummed. The concrete wall was covered in jagged capital letters.

Death. Flower. Black. Kiss. Moon. Red. Scarlet. Scream. Silence. Rot. Blade. Sex. Angel.

Blood.

She'd never been a fan of graffiti, but she was bored. She hated being bored. The press conference was coming up, and the police officers looked on edge. That's probably why no one had stopped her. They were all just happy she wasn't tapping anymore. Peasantry. To think she'd let herself be captured by these underlings.

No, not these underlings. Spencer's underlings. He really should take better control of them. Or maybe he was like her, a spider in a web of alphas. Putting on a mask of submission and ruling from the shadows. She dismissed the thought. It was nice, nice to not be alone, but he was different. She didn't like it, but he was different. Not as different as he would like, she was sure, but that was yet to be seen. She had no doubt that they could have been partners, in some other place.

Miranda hummed and considered string theory. Somewhere out there was a dimension where they could work hand in hand. Someday she'd go there. They would probably be bored, though. They needed a rival. She sighed again. If only Spencey didn't make such a good rival in this universe, she would be happy in another.

She wanted to see him. She dragged her fingers lazily over the word kiss. It was unapologetic, a scar in the wall. She smiled. Kiss.

Echoes. Everything was echoes, echoes of sound, echoes of light, echoes of touch and taste and a coppery smell. It was thick in the air, it was clogging him up. People were talking; he could feel them from behind the veil.

Everything was too bright and he wanted to go back into the dark, but there was something hammering into his skull and stabbing at his heart that wouldn't let him. People were talking with more insistence, they weren't taking no for an answer, and neither was the pounding.

He was underwater, trying to stop breathing, because inhaling more of that smell was too much. But the water wouldn't let him; it forced its way into his lungs, artificially pumping them. Making him live, but only just. Vague sensations filtered through the surface, dangling down to his level, where he was waiting to receive them in a groggy daze. Reid didn't want it, this half life; it was torturous in its ambiguity. Nothing to hold on to. Nothing to label, nothing to name. Even thought was a fractured memory, intangible and fading. Panicked, he looked for the exit but found nothing but more blocks, preventing his escape. Only two doors, one of struggle and one of pain, both were equally desired, but neither would open.

Try to reach for the light and the darkness pulled him down. Try to dive into it and the light would force his jaws open the receive it. There was no time, no space, only a thousand things he couldn't express floating in the murky expanses.

There was no avenging angel, no heavenly mercy, no goddess to pick him up or push him down. Only Reid. Floating somewhere which was nowhere, where there were no names. Caught between two paths he couldn't take. He wished there was pain. Pain was something he could feel, not like this torture of half existence.

With a burst he felt himself break the surface, only to be met in a split instant with the coppery scent and blinding lights, rushing noises and hurried action. Without even realising it, he shied away, and fell back underneath. Too much, too fast. He didn't want that. There was too much complexity, a rush of too much information. He could be as intelligent and eloquent, even grandiloquent as he liked, and he wouldn't even touch the ability to express it all. Too much. There was too much. Excess. Over flow. Too much.

Having opened one door only to slam it, the other looked more tempting. It was cool, peaceful. Dark and deep, but without the crushing pressure. If anything, there was less. An absence. A slick shadow to dive into, where there was nothing. Nothing at all. It was freeing, but not euphoric. Perhaps a little sorrowful, but he wasn't sure anymore. The door was coming closer, and it was nice. Like being wrapped in a blanket which obscured the ugly world. Going to sleep. He was tired, very tired.

A jolt shot through him, spraying the peace in shards. Broken, the jagged outlines stabbed and knifed his gut, his heart. He had almost been through the door, and he'd been ripped limb for limb by a horrible sensation. He felt himself wrenched back into the horrid lights, the noise and complexity. Too much, his mind wailed feebly. Unheard, unnoticed. A tiny mote of a thought amidst the lights and the noise.

Slowly, the noise died, but Reid wouldn't let his head slip back under the surface. He held on to the pain and the sensation. He didn't want to be shredded like that again. For the first time, he tasted the air. It was disgusting, coppery and full of a sort of turpentine, but it was better than the water. The water hadn't been good. The water hadn't been anything but wrong on some deeper level, and he hadn't wanted that.

He stayed in the light, all of a sudden remembering how scared he was of the dark, at the same time he registered that the light was sharp and fluorescent, made of waves that were hitting his eyes (cornea, retina, nerve) and sending electrical signals to his brain that were being interpreted as light.

He remembered the philosophical debate, does the light only exist in our minds? Allegory of the cave, now, but this light wasn't the illuminating sun, it was the false creations of men chasing it, Prometheus.

Information. Rudimentary information, and he knew all of it.

He remembered a thousand references to light (chiaroscuro, light and dark play, Michelangelo Caravaggio, born 1593, died in 1610 accused of killing another man and travelling to make amends). He knew how it worked, how it related to astrophysics, he remembered what astrophysics were.

Too much information, so he synthesized it. Coding. He coded it, he knew coding. He was an expert, looking for patterns, patterns in words and numbers and behavior. Numbers, he saw numbers everywhere, the equations for life. He saw grammar, he knew how it worked, what it said about you (subject begins phrases with I, tendencies show textbook narcissism partnered with a fragile ego, young, probably white male).

He was dizzy with it, spun senseless by the onslaught, but he absorbed the rush. He was a conductor, it was just a force flowing through him (electrons exchanging, Bohr, Rutherford, beginnings of atomic theory, Aristotle, elements). He knew how to handle information, he did it automatically (most planes don't even require a pilot these days, it's all just digital information processing after all), and he had a lot of it to handle. Details he knew most people shouldn't remember, a thousand details, too many details, too much, but he couldn't stop it now. He'd opened the flood gates, and he could calculate in his head the exact time it would take before the reservoir was empty (just give him a way to find the rate, but he had that as well now).

He could feel it inflating him, giving him shape and density, all the information. It was too much, and the water lapped at him, and he was falling back into it. Not like last time, now he was too full of facts to sink. He floated just beneath the surface (no, that's not how it works, _g_ = 9.80665 m/s2). More doesn't make you lighter, unless it does, which it does sometimes he now knew.

Nonsensical, that's what his thoughts were becoming, but it didn't matter because sleep was coming. Sleep was coming before the information he didn't want to know could hit, and he was thankful. So very thankful.

The hours passed fast, too fast, and J.J. was all of a sudden unsure of what in the name of hell they thought they were doing. She was looking out over what seemed to be a sea of cameras, flashes like the crests of waves and the crash and roar of a thousand people vying for the best position. Behind her, a police escort was coming out of the building. They were dressed in black, with stern expressions and weapons ready to be drawn. A few blocks down the almost dark street, she could see the blockades where the protesters had been stopped. It was shocking, barely anything had happened, and already the critics and dissenters had formed their own ideological factions. She'd seen it moving, tracked the chatter behind the scenes, and it didn't make the virtual virus of information any less terrifying.

They were lucky, it was overcast but there was no rain. Still, there was a damp sort of pressure in the air, combined with the chill of winter approaching. J.J. turned her head back to the police escort. From behind one of the doors, she saw it. A glimpse of white hair.

The reaction was instantaneous. J.J. had seen enough bombs, been tossed about by enough explosions, to know what combustion looked like, and this was it. All the cameras, all the journalists, they were all tinder. Soaked in gas, ready to be lit. And Miranda was the spark.

She played her part perfectly. J.J. watched from beside the podium, keeping a straight face. Perfectly straight. As Miranda got out of the car, a tentative, fearful smile on her face, J.J. watched. As she ducked her head shyly, as she allowed herself to be ushered along by the police officers, as she blinked those enormous, pale eyes into the lime light, J.J. watched. It was almost machochistic, standing there, unable to move while the creature that had hurt those closest to her (and enjoyed it) played the innocent schoolgirl to great effect. J.J. didn't have to be here. She could be with Morgan, or waiting for Reid to awaken. But she was here, because it was her job, after all, to have a sick fascination with evil. Because this was evil, malevolent to the core. And all she could do was watch. Watch as the cameras clicked and hope to God and whatever else was out there that she'd done her job well.

Miranda finally got up the steps. Up close, she looked ragged. Someone, maybe a PR person, or some family member, had brought her a change of clothes. She was wearing a pale cardigan and pleated skirt. It was clearly designed to punch them in the face with everything they equated with innocence, childishness. However, as the girl of the hour approached, J.J. could see the shadows under her eyes hastily applied makeup couldn't hide. Her fingernails were bit down until a couple of them were bleeding, and her hair had a dullness to it. She looked like a poor ragdoll, thrown out to the streets. Of course, from a distance she looked like everything the young and privileged should. Shiny and new. Close up though, she was rotting away. Something was showing through, and it was a damn sight closer to the truth than the last time J.J. had seen her.

As Miranda grew nearer to the podium, the flashes became more and more insistent, and the noise grew until it was a cascade. Then she reached it, and all of a sudden it was quiet. A hush fell over the journalists. Even in the clothing of a child and surrounded by authority when she had no power, there was potency to her presence. J.J. gritted her jaw.

"Um, hello," Miranda's voice was carried by the multiple microphones, but it was wavering and unsure. "My name is Miranda. I'm twenty one, and I've been arrested for the serial murders that have been going on. I've gotten the chance to make a statement to the press, so I guess this is it."

She paused, not with a theatrical air but nonetheless having all the effect of a great Shakespearean halt. J.J. knew she was guilty, knew she was a monster, but still felt a vile urge in her belly to wrap her arms around the fragile girl. Everything about her screamed insecurity, down the careful way she brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

She knew how Miranda was playing this, and she knew it was working.

"I grew up in this city, with my dad. He works with the police, but he does computer stuff. He never fired a gun, and he never even owned a set of handcuffs. But he loved the police. He always said to me, every day when he came home and I was waiting, and every time I had a nightmare, he always said not to be afraid, because the bravest people on the planet were protecting us. And that every day they strapped on armour and did hard things so none of us would have to. I believed him. So the reason I'm telling you this, is so that you know that I don't blame the police. I mean, things have gotten a little odd recently, what with that Bloom guy and all these messages, but I still am glad they're out there protecting us. I love them for it.

"But policemen are human, just like you or me. They're people, and people make mistakes. And they've make a mistake here. I'm not capable of this sort of thing, I can't even swat flies." Miranda gave a little giggle that turned into a sob. "I understand that the city is desperate to stop these atrocities, I understand that they're looking for anything to help them, but they're looking in the wrong spot. I- I don't even know how to defend myself. This whole thing is so crazy. One minute I thought the murders on TV were horrible, but nothing to do with me, and the next I've got SWAT teams in my house and bodies in my basement. Other than that I hired a man, a man who clearly wasn't who he claimed to be, I'm guilty of nothing here. I'm giving you my word, because it's all I have to give. I just hope it's enough. Because I want this nightmare to be over, and I'm reaching out to all of you. Have some compassion, please, and think about this."

Miranda looked down at the podium again, blinking back tears from her wide eyes. The crowd was dead silent. Apart from the cameras rolling, there was stillness. J.J. felt the sickly feeling of hatred and powerlessness twist in her stomach. She wanted to throw up, or just take out her gun and shoot. She noticed a tremor in her hand, and curled it into a fist to stop the shivering. She needed to remain calm, to take control of herself.

Then Miranda looked up, and there weren't any more stars in her eyes. Her lips split into a smile. This smile wasn't coy or shy though, it was something else. Electric, like a shark. It was... predatory.

"I almost had you, didn't I?"

Her back straightened, and her voice became louder. Bolder, projected. All of a sudden you could see the red curtains and the spotlight. There was a shudder through the crowd. A quick buzz of confused chatter. It stopped as soon as Miranda spat her next few words out with the conviction of a preacher and the anger of every anarchist this world had ever forged in its sordid belly.

"You're pathetic, you know that? I put of a sweater, pull on my Sunday best smile, and you eat it up. It really doesn't take much to manipulate these days, you can thank the American school system for that I suppose. It's actually boring, really, it's too easy. We all think we're Bond villains, stroking our cats, but MI-6 never show up. We press the button, and the world explodes, and we realise that we didn't even need the thousands of dollars. It's too easy, it's all too easy, and you're the ones that make it that way.

"Do you ever get tired of it? Being constantly the dumb cows, herded by the corporations and the political figures? The sheep of society, pretending you have free will in a world with nothing?

"Well I get tired of it. I get fucking tired of it. You all moving in your tiny, narrow-minded little patterns, trying to grasp the greater concepts of life with the brain capacity of goldfish. Like those little fish you get at stores, who still think the crappy castle in their bowl is the most entertaining thing in the world after a year with it. But you don't just swim around, no, you amass into an enormous crowd of monotony and stupidity, milling around. Pushing people around, making decisions you really aren't qualified to, and shoving the rest of us to the ground.

"Because we're not all like you, there's the intelligent out there. We're out here, every boy who puts up his hand in class to be beaten up after school, every crackhead on the streets that could solve differential equations if he hadn't been forced to look for an escape. We're marginalized, told that we're special but warned constantly by a society that views the worlds 'evil' and 'genius' to belong together not to show off our talents.

"It disgusts me. Makes me want to throw up, because you're rats. You're all fucking rodents compared to us, your minds don't have a fraction of the capabilities that ours do. But instead of obeying the natural order and putting you below us, the same way you'd put a rat below you, you preach equality. But we're not equal."

Miranda's voice became a soft purr, dramatic, low and hungry.

"So yes, I killed them. I took one of the vermin on the streets and turned him loose. It wasn't hard, it wasn't even stressful. But I don't really see the issue here. When your pathetic, fragile little minds can't even comprehend the possibility of a pretty young woman doing something so sordid, I don't see why I should pander to the less evolved."

She leaned in close, very close. The twilight period was over, and the skies were now totally dark. Her breath pierced the air like a sharp, deadly fog.

"After all, you don't even blink when you swat a fly. Or do you?"

She settled back on her heels, and surveyed the courtyard with a smirk. There was something malicious in her, something twisted and spiteful. But she believed what she was saying, she bought in to every discordant syllable and cacophonous sound.

"So do you have any questions?"

There was a moment of silence, then the storm hit. A cloud of shouting, people fighting to be heard, pushing and shoving to get to the front. Miranda just stood there, overlooking the chaos like a queen on her throne.

J.J. was so stunned it took a moment for the situation to sink in. Then she reacted on instinct, tapping on her own microphone and addressing the crowd. She was, after all, supposed to be in control of this press interview.

"QUIET! Please, one at a time."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the leader of the police protection squad signalling to her. Did she want to end the conference? The situation was getting close to critical, all this energy had to go somewhere, and it would be directed at one place- Miranda. In front of a crowd like this, she'd practically signed her own death warrant should things turn ugly. Normally, at this point she'd usher the subject into a van and transport them to a secure location. This wasn't a normal time though, and they needed the extra five minutes to cement Miranda's statement. J.J. reminded herself that this was what they wanted, and it was lucky that Miranda felt like playing the villain today.

She signalled back, not quite yet. Wait for her to make the call.

The crowd has quieted significantly after the shit had hit the fan, quieted enough for her to call on one of the men straining at the front of the mass.

"You there, go ahead."

"So what you're saying is that you're pleading guilty to the serial murders?"

As usual, the second his question had been spat out, a hundred more stampeded to take its place from every other reporter. It took few moments to quell the flow enough for Miranda to be heard, but the instant it had been, she was off.

"See, this is what I'm talking about. I give an elitist spiel, mention some very interesting ethical dilemmas and moral questions, and instead of bringing up the utilitarian calculus or asking relevant clarifications, you ask me to restate what I've already said. It's sad, don't you realise how sad it all is? YES, I'm pleading guilty. Way to go, gold star for you. Next!"

This time it was a woman with carefully coifed hair and a shrill, demanding voice. A news camera followed her every movement with well trained precision.

"So why kill all these people? How does this further your agenda at all?"

Miranda's eyes gleamed a little in the bright lights. Her smile was back, and she looked conspiratorial. Like she was sharing some great secret.

"That's more like it. But the answer's simple- because I could." Miranda leaned back let a laugh rip out of her belly and into the night sky. It was cold and high, and terrifyingly unhinged.

"Don't you see the beauty of all of this? I wasn't trying to do anything, just test my limits a little. Find something to occupy my mind. It's the purest motivation out there, the great driving force behind all of human progress, all of human innovation. Curiosity. Nothing more than the curiosity of a listless, bored human being. Doesn't it feel natural to be inquisitive? Doesn't it feel good to push, claw, at the boundaries of what we consider okay?"

J.J. felt the temperature of the crowd take one final shift. Energy was brewing, and not the sort she wanted to experiment with the limits of. She quickly turned to the team leader and made her signal. Then she leaned forwards to block the press' view of Miranda, and pushed her behind her into the arms of the police escort. Pressing the button on the side of her headset, she addressed the crowd again.

"This interview has been concluded, please clear the way and disassemble. Thank you for your time and cooperation."

The escort barely made it back to the car, thanks only to the quick efficiency of the team. Letting some officers usher her inside the building, J.J. was given the first pause to think and react since Miranda had started talking. Slowly, she sank into one of the chairs.

What in the name of fuck was Miranda planning?


	25. Chapter 25

**So here it is... the final chapter. I really did not want to be one of those authors who just let everyone down and never finished their work. Sorry it took me so long. After you work on something like this for a long time, your passion starts to wane- but I'm not here to give you excuses. I'm here to give you an ending. hope it's vaguely satisfactory, at the very least. **

**Oh and you might have noticed I changed my name- I became wary of people I actually know tracking me down. **

* * *

"I'm sorry, but as your lawyer, I have to advise against this."

"I don't give a damn what you advise. You'll do as I say, it's what you're being paid to do."

"There are ways of getting out of this, you're still young enough to beg on the grounds of being an accomplice. Most of their evidence is circumstantial, and even the eye-witness testimonies can be discredited. The abuse story could easily fly, as could begging corruption in the system. We could just-"

"I said no."

"It's my duty to give you the soundest legal advice-"

"Lalalalalala I can't hear you!"

The man in the suit made a huffing noise and settled back down on his heels. This could be the case of the century, and he was being deprived from making it. Poor baby. Miranda leaned to the side, trying to get comfortable in the metal chairs. They kept digging in, and her body already ached from the jail cot. Honestly, it was like they'd never heard of feathers before. That wasn't even getting into the food, which had resembled chalky mud. None of it had any flavor, and worse still, the bread was soggy. She had almost retched looking at it.

Her lawyer shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He opened his mouth slightly, then closed it again. Leaned forwards, then back. He could be dancing the tarantella with a little music. She smiled at the image of him in one of those dresses, tapping back and forth. At least she still had her mind to amuse her. And her pet lawyer, of course.

"So, if you've decided to plea guilty on all charges, I suppose there's nothing left for me to do. Unless you're absolutely sure that you won't even consider a defense."

She cocked her head at him, giving a good poker face. There really was no point to him being here, but at least it was entertaining to see him squirm. Of course, she was sure that the FBI was dying to know what she was planning, what webs the great spider would reveal. After all, the spotlight was on her, the curtains were quavering in the rafters, ready to be released, and the orchestra was building up to some grand finale. There was the taste in the air, the one that says in your ear that something is coming.

"Do you know what my plan is?"

The lawyer paused, confused. Miranda played her finger over her lips, feeling impulsive. She'd been feeling it for a while now, the push and pull of daring. Telling her to ride the ride, burn down the house and crash the car. Freud would know what she was talking about, the death wish and all that.

"I know what's happening in court, yes."

"No, do you know my _plan?_"

He got a rather owlish look, his throat bobbing at an interesting rate. Tick tock, eyes get wider, nerves get frazzled. No wonder she was acting with such spontaneity, it was so entertaining to play with her food. Ew, jail sandwiches. Better wash that thought away. Oh, and he was talking again. Random pace, little regard for sequence or logic. Poor baby bear. Too used to being distanced by polysyllables and Plato.

"Well, I would advise you against any actions outside of the judicial system, of course, but the thought had occurred to me- but as your lawyer…" He drifted, stopped, cleared his throat. "I have to admit, I don't… erm, understand, exactly what… I don't know why you would take this course of action. I suppose I'm not aware of your… plan, as you would say."

She leaned forwards, cutting through his chatter. He was looking nervous. It was probably because she wasn't blinking, an old trick she'd picked up along the way. Too bad it made her eyes prick. Prick like needles and yarn and tiny metal filings. Oh of course, she was still talking to him.

"You want to know a secret?"

His throat bobbed, but he leaned in as well, more instinctively than anything.

"Well- um," He paused. "Yes."

She moved forwards closer, like a cat, so that he could read every syllable on her lips as she formed them. His gaze flicked back and forth until it met her own, steadily burning eyes. He was trapped them, like a deer.

"_Neither do I._"

Miranda let the words hang there in the air for a second, like a long humming chord of music after a concert. Then she leaned back on the legs of her chair and letting a pealing cascade of laughter free. She felt her lungs pulling and pushing, and took a moment to revel in the sheer release of it. Felt every second of it, wrapped her arching tongue around every satin-wrapped, decadent, moment, her arms tilted back, fingers curled and clawing, her eyes closed, face twisted into a scream of a smile.

It was like being a banshee, chasing away life and death with a single noise that shattered glass, like cracking bones and breaking china, like the first time you really smash something.

Slowly, the moment wore off, and she floated down into the outside world. The lawyer was sitting back, looking seriously disconcerted over what she was sure he was trying to convince himself were simple theatrics. Wiping tears from her eyes, she let out a few more giggles.

"And it's so ridiculous, because they're all killing themselves trying to figure out what I'm up to! You're the same, all of you, watching me with bated breath and I have no idea AT ALL what's going to happen. I mean, I had a plan, but it was just so… tiresome. Gah, so grey, so linear. Boring. Boring boring boring. And I am NOT a boring person. Never.

"But I just went off the rails, tipped the train, and now I'm just sitting here, waiting to go on stage not knowing my lines. Waiting for some sort of divine sign, isn't that silly? A divine sign, as if anyone upstairs was going to help me out. God was always such a drag, have you ever sat through one of those church sessions? I know some people feel something, but it always just seemed so obvious to me. It's like those enormous trucks some men drive, like staking a claim that you're compensating for something. Really, it always seemed pathetic. Mind you, not all big cars are bad. Take my advice, if you're ever being chauffeured, insist on a Rolls Royce. There's just something about them, maybe it's the engine or the leather or the way people look at you, but it doesn't matter why."

She paused. Her lawyer was giving her a look, one of the dangerous ones her teachers had given her sometimes. No matter. What did it matter if he was a little discombobulated? She didn't need to worry about that anymore. None of it mattered anymore. She was off-script, waiting for inspiration, not hiding in the dark corners of cramped plans constructed from shadows and paranoia. Finally, she could stretch her arms.

"I tell you darling, I may digress, but it is still just lovely to get that off my chest. You have no idea the way it feels to have all that wrapped up and be just chortling on the inside at all the serious faces and have no one to share it with. It's simply torturous. But thanks to my good old friend client-attorney privilege, now you can share my little secret too."

Miranda leaned in.

"I've got a lot of little secrets, and the great thing about you is that you're the only person who knows them. So, if say, I were to hear those secrets sneaking around in the greedy little mouth of anyone else, I guess I'd know who helped them get there."

Her voice darkened, and took a lower tone. Like ice. Like a glacier slowly assimilating the countryside.

"And just because I don't have a plan now, it doesn't mean I won't get another later."

* * *

It started just as a flutter on the edges of his eyelashes, and maybe a subtle disturbance in the steady beating of his mechanical compatriot. Nothing much, barely anything at all, but enough for someone to notice. Someone looking hard enough. And with a case like this, a patient like this, everyone was looking hard enough. As it happens, it was a nurse who first saw the change. She had sharp blue eyes that were sometimes clouded grey, and like her eyes she wasn't quite sure how to feel about the change. Stable is stable, and consciousness changes stable into something else entirely. She'd seen it too many times before, the hope, the promise. Then the crash as they're dashed. The heart tries so hard, only to give up, or falter at the finish line.

The lights of reality can be very harsh, and it's no wonder a soul would like to seep back into the dark at the sight of them.

So when the nurse called the doctor, there was hesitation in her eyes and a guard over her voice. Things were about to be decided, and decisions are always risky.

Blackness. No, grey. Grey, light to one side and dark to the other. The light is harsh, and the dark is soft. Soothing. Waiting. The light is colours.

_Of course, light is made up of all the colours in the spectrum, not that we can perceive all of these due to the limitations of the human vision. In fact, many theorise that as colour does not truly exist in the outside world at all as any more than wave lengths, what we see as colour is in fact totally subjective, and is quite possibly radically different depending on the individual. Some philosophers blame the inability of us to truly know what another's red or blue is on the limitations of our language, and purport that in a pure language, we would have words that allowed us the capacity to fully express colour, or sound. _

_However, compared to white, grey is much more contentious. To some, grey is a shade, a combination of black (the absence of light) and white (all light). This means that in reality (or the reality we perceive through our limited human senses), similarly to white, it is many colours combined. In art, however, the existence of a pure 'grey' is often disregarded as non-existent in the natural world; the greys we are exposed to instead being made of uneven proportions of other colours (similarly to brown). In the classic painter's colour wheel this is often made by combining complementary tones. However, we still consider grey as a shade, not a colour. In a sense, grey's pure form is in fact a shade, but as we can never perceive that in our natural world, it seems irrelevant. _

_Many artists worked in greyscale, such as M C Escher's famous sketches. Of course, in his heyday he was often looked down upon by artistic society as a mere draftsman, not a true artist. How our societal perceptions of what makes art truly art have changed over the years is a source of much deliberation and debate. How do we define art?_

Drifting away from the noise. Noise is tasteless. Glaring. Flinch.

* * *

Morgan was eating jello when he heard. Prentiss came in, not knocking, which was odd. He could tell by her face that something was wrong. Or, if not wrong, different. He sat up straighter, wincing as his side flared with a hot sort of a pain.

"What happened?"

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep. Prentiss looked at the heart monitor, and Morgan cursed the damn machine that told everyone what he was thinking. It's one thing to be surrounded by profilers all the time; it's another to broadcast it to the world. Prentiss' lips wrinkled slightly, but she didn't make him wait. She knew him well.

"Reid's showing signs. He might wake up soon."

Morgan swallowed dryly, trying to suppress the overwhelmingly protective urge that came over him. The psychiatrist from yesterday had talked to him about this, and he had his training of course. It was only natural, almost a strange sort of Stockholm's Syndrome, for him to react viscerally towards any issue with Reid. When in a time of high stress we latch on to ways of symbolically dealing with our own problems, usually by involving ourselves with someone else's. It's a coping mechanism. He knew it. It still hurt in an odd, panicky way that went way deeper than concern for a close friend, a best friend, and a team member. Morgan was good at compartmentalizing, but apparently not as good as he thought.

"That's good news, right?"

Prentiss smiled weakly. Then flicked her eyes down, and hesitated before keeping speaking. She was using a lower tone, one he'd heard her use a thousand times on victims. Victim. He hated that word, always had.

"Yes. It's good news. But it's also a… dangerous time. There's a lot of risk involved. We don't know what's going to happen, so don't take anything for granted."

* * *

Reid was in a room. Something in the back of his mind was rambling on about memories and ways of dealing with traumas, and the clear something about safe places. He blurred it, like the lights were blurred. This was his house. He didn't want noise inside his house.

The walls got more solid, and he realised there was wallpaper. It was familiar somehow, like the books and the tv tucked in the corner. He needed to clean up he supposed. Papers everywhere, but when he looked closer, the words were gone. A good thing too. He didn't want those words, they were noisy. Like the lights and the voice that kept talking. All the voices, all with so many ideas and facts. Facts. Why facts?

The voice had an answer for this, but he put it under water, where all it could do was blub impotently bellow the surface. Briefly he wondered where the water was. But that was noise too, and he didn't need noise.

Reid liked his room. It was calm. It was peaceful. It was his.

But why was he Reid? Who else was he? Spencer? No, that name was tainted somehow. Too close, it was too close. He was Reid. People called him Reid. Which people? It didn't matter, they lead to noise, and noise was bad. Noise made the walls shake and the wallpaper blur, stripped away into base elements. Carbon, ammonium, phosphorous. Elements. But they were noise as well so he got rid of them. The voices didn't like that, you can't just get rid of those, but he did. Cleaning out the garbage. It felt good to get rid of all the voices, all the noise. The more that he got rid of, the better he felt.

Soon he'd be free, and then it would be peaceful forever. The voices would stop calling him, and he wouldn't have to be grabbed and pulled and shoved around by their sharp edges. Soon.

* * *

Hotch sat, staring at the video monitor. He knew it wouldn't give any answers, but it had to, because it was the only thing he could do right now. Before he'd been hunting, and Hotch was good at hunting. He'd always been good at hunting. Hunting for things, positions, ideas, answers. It was clear, a puzzle to figure out. Waiting on the other hand, was something he'd never been good at.

He remembered being in high school, sitting on the grass with his friends. Just sitting there, waiting for the bell to ring, for class to start. He remembered realizing that the people around him were content with this… waiting. With not doing anything, just sitting there and slowly aging. Of course, his father had told him about that. About people not going anywhere or doing anything, but it was only that day when he'd realized that he really was alone. That all the astronauts and ballerinas of kindergarten were slowly becoming the Wal Mart employees and data entry staff of the future.

The grass had been green, and the earth had been firm but forgiving, the sun had drifted lazily across the sky. The moment had been perfect, but inside his stomach had been a feeling of deep resentment. A discomforting flower slowly blooming. It had been a realization, that he would always be moving. Even after he married, even with his son, he'd always been moving. That's probably why it ended.

Now Hotch was faced once again with the one thing he couldn't handle. Not moving. The unsub was caught, his team was in the hands of the doctors, and all he could do was wait on the sidelines. Maybe if he watched one more tape. Just one more interview, things would start to make sense. This was something he could do.

On the heavily pixilated screen, Miranda's father pleaded with the policemen to understand that he never meant any harm. And Hotch waited.

* * *

_Hello there._

Reid looked around the room, but it was empty. It must have just been another one of the voices. Reid shoved at the voice, but couldn't feel anything to grasp onto.

_You can't get rid of me that easy._

Reid frowned. Why was the voice still here?

"Why are you in my room? What are you?"

_Well, I supposed you could say I'm a ghost that's haunting your room. And I'm here because I have to tell you something._

"What's that?" Reid frowned again, slowly moving his features. Everything was so nice and slow, he didn't want to mess it up. "Leave me alone."

_I can't do that. _

"Why not?"

_Because then you'll die._

Reid slowly turned the thought around.

"Am I dying?"

_Yes. Haven't you noticed the floor? You're disappearing, and you'll be gone if you don't do something quick. _

Reid looked down. The carpet was gone, and there was a sort of emptiness underneath. His feet were gone as well, his pants slowly dripping into the void. Even the wallpaper was beginning to melt at the bottom, the design becoming decayed and the colours merging.

"I'm dying."

Reid found he didn't have a lot of trouble with the idea. Peace. No more noise.

"Everyone dies."

It was a melancholy fact, but it was still a fact.

_But you don't have to, you can still survive! See, there's a door. _

Reid looked up again lethargically. The walls were dissolving now, but he could see the voice was right. There was a door. It was wooden and solid looking. Heavy, old fashioned. It looked like a lot of work to move. So heavy.

"I think I'll just stay here a moment instead."

_No!_

The voice just wouldn't leave him alone.

_You will not die! You don't want to die._

"Why not?"

_Because you'll disappear. Forever. You'll leave all your friends, all your family. Remember the team? All the people you save? Morgan. You have to make sure he's okay. And you can't just give Garcia all this hope just to die on her. What about Hotch? He would be so disappointed, and you hate disappointing Hotch. _

Reid didn't understand what the voice was talking about. It was all so noisy. So noisy and complicated.

"Maybe I won't disappear. Maybe I'll go to heaven. That sounds nice."

_You don't believe in heaven._

"No. But…" Something flashed in one of the picture frames in the room. A light, something from a long time ago. "I've seen an angel." Reid scrunched his brain as hard as he could, trying to pull the thought out into the open. He had to… explain it for some reason. The walls became a little less blurry, and he saw the picture frame more clearly. "I was in the dark, and then there was a light… A bright light. She had a halo."

_She won't save you._

"Why not?" Reid tried to think. Had he been a bad person out there?

_She's not an angel. _There was a pause. _You have to beat her, by staying alive. _

The voice didn't seem to want to elaborate, but it didn't have to. For an instant, there was pure sensation amidst the floaty haze. There was a flash of clear red, and Reid got a feeling in his belly, like tangling roots sinking into his flesh. Then it flowed away.

"It's no use. I can't get up anyways. I can't reach the door."

_You're already there. _

Reid looked up. Suddenly he was standing beside the door in an empty corridor. The corridor wasn't the dismal sludgy mess the room was becoming, but he could see it beginning to corrode away at the corners.

_All you have to do is turn the knob. It's a simple choice._

"But I'm… scared."

The voice became angry, deeper, rumbling with command.

_You're scared to live, you're scared to die, but you can't stay here anymore. Make your choice._

The dark got closer.

* * *

"Tell me, why is it okay for you to eat an animal?"

"Excuse me?" The agent's voice was incredulous, clearly not impressed by Miranda's attempt to divert the conversation. Still, it was the first thing she'd said in hours, so he'd take the small victory.

"Meat. You're not a vegetarian, correct?" Miranda leaned back, not to be distracted from her train of thought.

"I don't see what that has to-"

"Agent McAllen, it has everything to do with your questions. You want me to explain, to…" She waved her hand, as if grasping at inspiration. "…co-operate, don't you?" She cocked her eyebrow.

McAllen opened his mouth, as if to argue, but his eyes flickered to the one-way glass covering the wall to his left. That one slip told Miranda everything she needed to know. He wasn't in charge here. His weakness in this war, or conversation (as she supposed was the more civil name for the situation), was that he was being paid to listen to her, and wait for her to let a detail go. But that's not what he wanted. She could see the alpha male howling at the moon inside him, trying desperately to dominate the interrogation. If he were smarter, he'd lose the pride and do what his bosses obviously wanted him to do. Sit tight and pretend to buy into her illusion of power. She'd already rejected having her legal counsel present during questioning; she was an obvious narcissist- an intelligent person would allow her to talk, and to keep talking. While tripping on her own genius, she would be far more likely to release critical information. Anyone with half a wit would be all over an opportunity like this- even Miranda could see her own ego taking over.

But he wasn't smart, not like her other playthings. It was a pity they'd chosen the blunt tool. It would have been interesting to get in a real battle, with all the cards on the table.

"Why is it okay for you to eat the meat? Ethically, or morally, why is it okay to kill and eat that animal?"

He let out a terse, impatient sigh.

"Because it's an animal, and we need to eat animals to survive."

"But right now, you don't need to eat that animal to survive. You could eat a hundred other things. In this case, survival is not a really a factor. You simply chose to eat the flesh of a pig instead of an apple or a human. In that case, how do you justify that choice?"

McAllen's jaw twitched, clearing not appreciating the diversion. It reminded her of a lion she saw in a zoo once, flicking its tail. Held back from being able to hunt by a few little bars, and not fully understanding why the metal was even there. Frustrated by the confusing, alien restrictions it could not comprehend, yet was forced to acknowledge.

"Animals are different from people. They're not sentient."

"And I suppose, by that logic, animals are different from plants, the relevant distinction being their level of consciousness?"

McAllen's eyes narrowed, aware he was being lead into some sort of trap. After a hesitant pause, he responded without losing the implication of well-contained anger in his voice.

"Must I remind you that I am the one giving this interview-"

"And I am giving you what you want, answers. Now tell me, is eating an animal better than a person, and a plant better than an animal, because of their level of consciousness?"

"Well, yes, but this doesn't have-"

Miranda shook her head impatiently, waving his statements aside with a twist of her wrist (still handcuffed to the table).

"So, you admit that the key piece of data in determining the social acceptability, or ethical correctness, of a death is intellectual capacity. And it's really the only conclusion- that or we are simply engaging in unjustified, arbitrary species-ism, which means that for all our posturing our entire society is based on hypocritical, animalistic urges and ideas."

"Look, we've played this game long enough. " McAllen tried to interrupt, but Miranda's cool control was fading into passion worthy of the most fervent extremist leader.

"Oh, shut your mouth! Don't you see it? That's what you are- animals. The gap between our intellectual capacities is the same as between you and some hound bitch, and yet you seem to have some problem acknowledging your own inferiority. You're all a bunch of ants hopped up on your own delusions of grandeur, thinking if you take down the queen it means you're free and just, but never questioning the basis of your decisions. Never thinking for yourselves. Just propagating the same old prejudices and structures that have been handed to you by the past on the same dingy plate they ate off of."

McAllen stood up and slammed his hand on the table.

"Enough! I have listened to your rants and your justifications, but it doesn't change anything. You're just a psychopath using fancy words to make you seem more special than you really are. Because you're not. You're just another fucking run-of-the-mill crazy trying to make a splash, trying to spin a web to cover up the fact that all you did was give into your sadistic fucking needs-"

"I'm NOT FINISHED!"

"Yes, yes you fucking are you crazy bitch, you're finished, your plan is finished, your life is finished, and no amount of talking is going to change that! And you know it."

"Officer McAllen! That's enough."

He whipped around. Delaire was standing in the room, along with two uniforms. The grim set of her lips was enough to let him know that he wasn't about to enjoy the conversation they were going to have after this fiasco. A quick cock of her head towards the entrance was all he needed to know to verify it. He snorted, grabbing the files on his way out.

Miranda smiled.

Delaire turned to follow him, but a singsong tone pulled her back. Miranda had returned to her previous position, reclining under the harsh lights as if they were the summer sun. Gone was the flying spittle and red cheeks, almost as if in those few seconds they'd had a visit from a particularly shady fairy godmother.

"Please, after I went to all that trouble to clear away some of the trash the least you can do is allow us to get a bit better acquainted. Sit, enjoy the nice steel chair. It isn't five star accommodations, but I'm fairly certain I haven't entirely lost my graces as a hostess- my conversation is the stuff of legends."

And honestly, how could any self-respecting person turn up an offer like that?

* * *

It's hard to avoid happiness. Anger can be denied, starved at the bottom of the soul. Sadness can be held tight prisoner, disgust can be imploded into cooperation, but joy is a different bird. It's hard to resist when you don't want to, when every cell aches to be unburdened. When every limb wants to float, when every stress and worry seems far away, and chains that once bound with unshakeable might are all too easily melted. You can push every moment that you dance of the edge of control, where you almost punch and hit and scream and cry into a place where it's slowly compacted, but when the time comes when you're faced with happiness, even the strongest break. When it flows through you with every maybe and might, and promises that its accumulating streams will become an ocean, a white tipped roaring river to wash away the sediment of dread and hateful debris that's trapped inside you, you don't have a choice but to entertain the notion. And that's what kills you. That's what lets everything be taken away from you.

And that's the enemy they were facing. That golden steed that charged through the halls of the hospital, that breathed in and fed on every negative result and every hopeless dream that managed to hide away from the damp of the unavoidably tragic that had permeated the rooms. Recklessly demanding they listen to whispers until they grew dangerously loud, and drowned out the cold voices, the dismal voices that promised no port from the storm, only truth. Such a meaningless and pitiful reward for weathering the sleet and the rain and the bone-shattering cold.

When the team sat on the edges of their seats and waited, when feet tapped surreptitiously and electrons fired at alarming rates behind harrowed eyes, they were fighting it for all they were worth. And they were losing. They were too close; they could taste the happy ending. It was tingling on their tongues like sweet fire.

Like the heralds of the gods, the footsteps of the doctors echoed down the hall as they approached. They sat to attention, Hotch standing up. The hospital hallway seemed endless all of a sudden, the footsteps taking far too long, yet somehow racing towards them far, far too fast. Hotch didn't know how he knew that this official was carrying the news they'd been waiting for, had congregated for. He didn't look much different from the other doctors in stark gowns or nurses with bright lipstick on tired lips, but somehow it was obvious. Amongst all the life and death that happened on a daily basis, this stood out. This was big. This was the moment of truth, the truth that happiness and hope would deny.

Suddenly he was there, and his coat seemed the wings of a great mythological beast. The fates were swooping down, the scissors were on the thread. He cleared his throat. The second hand dragged itself towards the next notch, weighed down by expectation.

"Agent Reid is awake."

It was dizzying, really, the reactions. The audible sigh of relief coupled with the reluctant elation that was tinged with stress. What was the catch? Before they had time to open their mouths, he continued in a dry tone.

"Now, I caution you, often coma victims only wake up just before they pass on. His stats look good, but that isn't a guarantee. With that in mind, we will be allowing visitors, but you should know he will be weak. Don't expect too much coherence. We are doing all we can here, but a lot is up in the air right now, so be gentle, and don't get too excited."

They nodded, they smiled tersely, and they tried so, so hard to follow his advice.

* * *

Reid lay on the bed of the hospital, trying to stop his hand twitching. He could hear his breath rattling in and out through tubes, and felt terribly exposed. The softness of the morphine was muffling the pain, but he was very aware of the parts of his body that were injured. He'd slowly become aware of them through the druggy haze. It had been so thick when he'd woken up that he'd thought he was just coming down off another high. Another night full of trippy half sleep on his couch, getting ready for another day of deceit. That was a long time ago, but it seemed so much closer than the recent past. He was having trouble sorting out events, figuring out when what had happened and how long it had taken. The strangest thing was the nothingness of it all. It was a gaping hole where he could remember emotion existing, but was unable to summon. Like when you have a song on the tip of your tongue, but can't fathom the melody. It was tranquil, factual. He was floating above it, and it happened, but only as a dream.

There was a clicking, and the door opened. Reid wasn't sure whether his eyes were open or closed until he realised he couldn't see who it was and he should have been able to. It was blurry, so he blinked, and there was Prentiss.

"Hey there. How are you feeling?" Her voice was gentle, like she was talking to a victim. It took him by surprise.

"Hi," he started, but his mouth was gummy feeling, so he stopped and tried again. "Hi Emily."

"How are you doing?"

"Great." He smiled, but it was only half-ironically. He really did feel fine, a floggy, floaty sort of fine. Reid's chest made an uncomfortable jerking motion, and a little noise came through his nose.

Prentiss' mouth smiled back at him, but her eyes didn't change. They were fixed in place like two glistening orbs. He could even read his future in them.

"I'm not doing… good, am I?"

His breath rattled in and out of the tubes. Prentiss didn't respond. She reached her hand out tentatively, then drew it back and fiddled with the edge of his sheet. Her mouth opened slightly. His breath rattled in and out, in and out, like rough pebbles caught in a vacuum cleaner.

"There's nothing to worry about, the doctors… are very good. You'll be fine." Her warm smiled flashed on, her eyes even scrunched a bit in the corners. Her irises, though, remained oddly fixed. It was her victim smiled. The high ebbed slightly as a bubble of something close to fear rose up through it. It was like a breath of fresh air.

"Prentiss." He looked up at her. She looked down.

"There's a risk. But you're strong. You've survived, you're going to be fine."

Reid looked away, and for a second, the rattling quickened.

"How much do you remember of- of what happened?"

A furrow appeared. It took Reid a minute to answer, staring at the wall. It was only as he began to speak in a halting tone that he looked back up at her.

"All of it. At least… I think all of it. Near the end it got blurry. Confused. It was… like I wasn't there. There was a bit, I guess when I was… where nothing was there but these little… little bits. Like I was all split up, and then I had to- I had a choice. There was something about a choice. Or maybe not. Maybe it wasn't my choice, but just a… I don't know. I can't really remember." He paused, eyes flicking back to the wall. "I probably sound like my mom."

"No." Prentiss said. There was another minute of silence.

"What did you choose?"

Reid frowned gingerly. Even his face hurt.

"I can't remember. But it hurt."

"It hurt?"

"A lot. And then… and then I was here. And… wait." Reid's eyes focused properly for the first time in the conversation. His hand twitched, fingertips spasming against Prentiss' wrist. "Morgan. What…?"

"Morgan is fine. He's going to be okay."

Reid's body sunk back.

"That's good. That's good…" His eyes began to half close.

Prentiss smiled again, but her eyes were shiny.

* * *

The rest of the team was waiting as Prentiss gently closed the door behind her.

"How is he?" Hotch asked, eyebrows firmly shading his eyes from the hospital lighting. He had a distinctly hawk-like appearance.

"He's… he's good. Drugged up. I don't think he's fully with us yet. He asked about Morgan though."

Rossi nodded. "They've been through a lot together. I would be more surprised if he didn't."

"Do you think…?"

"He's a strong kid, J.J. He'll pull through."

* * *

"I told you, I'm going to be okay. You can relax a little."

"How am I supposed to relax when my boy is in the hospital? I'm not going to come close to relaxing until I've seen you and made sure those doctors are doing their jobs. Do you have enough pillows?"

"Yes, ma, I have enough pillows. The facilities are state of the art, and we're getting VIP treatment. You don't have to come all the way out here."

"Of course I do. Look what happens when I let other people take care of you."

"But I'm going to get shipped back to Virginia as soon as possible anyways. You can visit me there."

"Derek, I can't just sit here. I'm coming, and that's final."

"Okay, okay. I under-"

"And your sisters."

"Ma!"

"It's family, Derek. And ever since your father…"

There was a pause.

"I worry, Derek. And it's not like I don't have good reason. All these murders and psychopaths- and now this."

"I know, ma. I know. And I know this must have scared you, but I'm okay. We won. I'm alive."

She sighs.

"I know."

Another sigh.

"What about your friend? Is he alright? He seemed so sweet when you visited- a little strange, but very sweet."

"I don't know. He's alive, but…"

"I'll pray for him, poor soul."

"Thanks."

"What's happened to the… things… that did this?"

"One of them, the one in charge, is in custody. They caught her when they found us. It sounds like she's singing to the hills. She's going away, and it'll be for a long time. A very long time. The other one…"

"Yes? Is he still out there? How could they have let that monster escape? What incomp-"

"No, mom, it's okay. He's dead. I killed him."

"Oh."

"It was self defense, there won't been any problems legally. I'll probably get a medal or something."

"And good riddance at that."

"Yeah… good riddance."

* * *

And that was that.

It was odd, looking back to it, a month later. After Miranda's shocking decision to deprive the courts of the media-frenzy of the century by pleading guilty, the case was over incredibly quickly. It's surprising how quickly you can get a court date when every judge in the city is vying to try the case, and the process is exempt from muddling lawyers pulling every string in the book to draw out the ordeal. It was like a firecracker, gone in a flash. Police stations worldwide were still in the process of tracing back her footsteps all over the globe, on vacations, on school trips, all trying to find another victim. Sometimes Rossi wondered if they were hoping or dreading one. It was hard to tell.

Of course, the team was in the centre of it. For them, the bang hadn't vanished into the night. It echoed around the walls of the BAU, around the corners of surgeon's tables and under the beds of recovery rooms. It bounced off shiny degrees of shiny psychologists, and reverberated around the chambers of their hearts. It wasn't gone, it was a roar that time was only beginning to start slowly sanding away at.

Rossi looked at the files. It was hard to believe that it all fit into files, that it was all part of another case. But it was. It was paper and facts and witness testimony, it was a profile drawn up by professionals. Professionals that knew the risks, that made decisions based on years of experience and training,

That didn't make the results sting any less, though.

He remembered the plane ride back. It was quiet, and tired. For most of them, it was the first time they'd slept in weeks. There was just this… blanket over them. Like the air had swelled up with it all, and it was too thick to struggle against. Too big to talk about; an enormous mass without start or end, with no place to begin to unravel it at. The heaviness pushed them into their seats, and none of them had the strength to really push back. They'd exhausted it on the easy part. The part where they could do something, where they could cope and be professionals. That part was over.

The hero and his girl had kissed, and the credits were rolling. But life had gone on, and no one knew how to handle what was supposed to follow. How to you even start that conversation? And where does it end?

But life went on past that as well. They slept. They ate. And slowly, they talked. And time wore on, and time wore down the silence. Eventually, they smiled, really smiled again.

They were working on a new case now, in the same room where it all began. Rossi had read all the files, so he was only semi-listening as Garcia went over the details at the front.

It had taken her a while to get her spark back, but in many ways she was stronger than any of them. Right from the start she hugged and kissed and made everyone remember what being loved felt like. She joked, and fussed, and was so terribly human about the whole thing that her light drove away a little of the dark every day. (Her light, as it happened, was very pink, and very, very, fluffy.) Of course, there were things she didn't share. The nights she woke up and had to cry and drink hot chocolate and have a bath before she could get back to sleep. All the times that she looked at her clothes and a little bit of Miranda was hiding in one of the skirts she could just see her wearing. And, most importantly, every time she looked around and wondered if they'd be able to put together the pieces this time.

Hotch was watching the screen from the corner he was standing in, like a mix between a vampire and a very serious sculpture. When he was like this at work it was hard to remember that he wasn't just some stoic figure leading the way with reason. He always stayed strong, even through this. He was a constant point in a tumultuous, shifting time where nothing else was certain. It hit him though, on the inside. If the BAU was a family, then he was the father, and he couldn't help but blame himself a little. Right from the start, he should have seen what they were up against. Now that the investigation was turning up the lengths of the deception and corruption within the police force, the signs were obvious. Tampering with dates, missing files. These were red flags, and he'd missed them. It was his job to manage and take care of them, and he'd failed.

Prentiss, though, wasn't upset they hadn't noticed the danger until too late. She was upset it had existed in the first place. There's nothing quite like the deep, boiling anger that drowns you when incompetence and injustice allows tragedy to occur unchecked. She had seen a lot of monsters, up close and very personal. She'd lived with them, dined with them, studied them until she felt she knew them better than they themselves- so when she said Miranda was one of the worst, she didn't say it naively. The fact that elitism and bureaucracy had allowed not just one, but two serial killers to flourish was unacceptable. And the fact that they'd done what they'd done to her family, to those she loved and protected with her life… it was incomprehensible. But she had the firing ranges, and her cats, and her work, and the rage slowly stopped flaming and began to smoulder.

J.J. was normally good at dealing with people. She was the shoulder to cry on, the diplomatic liaison, the expert with victims. So it was hard being helpless, being able to see pain but not heal it. It was difficult to sit and tell someone that it was over, that she was gone and not coming back, but be unable to reverse time and undo what had been done. Torture leaves scars that run very deep. Not physical scars, but ones that only appear when you're in the dark. Madness, though, doesn't cut into what's already there. It just reaches inside and twists- switches wires and confuses connections. When someone is exposed to it, and when it's for an extended period, it changes their fabric a little. If they're lucky, they can twist back into shape. J.J., though, wasn't going to rely on luck. If it took her a thousand years, she would break down the damage and wash it away. She was willing to wait, no matter how long it took. Because J.J. was very, very good at dealing with people.

At the table for the first time in a long time sat Morgan. It had taken him a long time to recover physically, longer than he'd like. He hated being surrounded by all the flowers and the carefully worded cards. It felt stifling. All he wanted to do was hit someone over the head and deal with the issue. He'd been though shit. A lot of shit. He felt guilty for some of it, no matter how much he knew he wasn't supposed to. He hated that his power had been taken away. He hated that he'd let himself be compromised, hated the things he'd done, been made to do. But flowers couldn't change things. The only thing that could was making sure it didn't happen again, and didn't happen to anybody else. That he could do, that he could handle.

The six of them looked at the pictures on the screen. It was pretty simple, just some stabbings. An obviously sexually motivated murder, disorganised. Probably a white male in his thirties, with a record of sexual deviancy and issues at home as a child. Feelings of impotency. Not the stuff of legends and intrigue, but still horrible. The six of them sat there and moved on, with another case. Another file. Because that's what they always did, that's what they were trained to do.

Then, there was a ding from Garcia's laptop, sitting on the table.

"Perfect", she said, pressing a few buttons.

"Sorry I'm late."

The voice was tinny as it came out of the computer's speakers. On the screen was a video link to a man sitting on his couch in his apartment. On the couch beside him were several books and files, and he was wearing a loose, collared shirt and plain brown pants. Under his eyes were deep shadows (deeper than normal, at least), and he was looking pale. Reid was here.

Of course, physically he wasn't. But he had been through a lot, and it was still going to be several weeks before he was allowed to walk around- let alone traipse across the country with the rest of the team. Frankly, no one was even sure he was mentally up for it. Despite everything, though, there was one certainty. The best place, the place he belonged- was right here. With them. And after everything else, that was what mattered, and what would always matter.

Reality, sanity, these things are unsteady islands in a stormy sea, but people- your people- are there as beacons. To guide you in the dark, to give you a real light. Not one that blinds you, forces itself on you- one that only you can choose to see, one that tugs you gently towards the only thing that matters, the only thing that will hold you true.

_"Rarely do members of the same family grow up under the same roof."_  
-Richard Bach

* * *

**So there it is. The final chapter. I like some parts of it, hate some parts of it. I didn't want to get too in depth with it, because I feel like the this story is very dense as it- instead I decided to give more snapshots of what I really wanted to show. I also tried to balance the long, text chunks I'm so fond of with more dialogue, which is risky because I'm never sure I've gotten my point across. **

**Thank you so much to everyone who read this. It's the first real thing I've written, and over the past... wow I don't even know how long it's been. A year, two years. Something like that. Honestly, I have changed a lot as a person over this experience. Looking back at what I was like, and what my writing was like when I began, I'm pretty blown away with how much of our very selves is fluid. **

**I can't imagine how much dedication it must have been to follow this story since the start, so to those of you who stuck by my six- month long hiatuses and inconsistent responses to reviews, thank you. To those of you that didn't, I can't say I blame you. I probably wouldn't have. To those of you who are new, or reading this in the future, thanks for giving me your time. I know it's not an every day thing for someone to spend however many, many hours reading a fanfiction the length of many novels. This community is incredibly supportive, and you can't take that for granted- ever. **

**I'm not listing this story as complete, though, because you can stay tuned for my epilogue! Whoot whoot! Party! Awkward one person party in the corner over here! **

**Please review, please say your mind and state your piece. The only reason that this story exists, and that I actually finished it, is because of you. It belongs to you, all of you, so I will take no offense if you trash it. It's not mine to be offended because of. **


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